R.£JLeSE 

• 

UBRAJW 

|HtVERS»TY  Ol 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO  j 


'•- 

presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 

MR.    JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


FACT  AND  FANCY 


HUMOROUS  POEMS 


BY 

CUPID   JONES 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

West  Twenty-third  Street  24  Bedford  Street,  Strand 

®j)t  Jinulurbochtr  Ijpress 
IS95 


COPYRIGHT,   1895 

BY 
F.  H.  SALTUS 


"Cbe  Tftnfcfeerbocher  press,  "fflew  "Kocbelle,  TR,  12. 


TO 

ROMONIA   AGNES   SHOTWELL 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FACT  AND  FANCY  .........  i 

THE  CANDID  WAITER     ........  3 

THE  CRITICAL  ACTOR    ........  5 

A  MAN  SLEEPS 7 

HE  LOVED  AND  HE  SKIPPED  AWAY 9 

THE  BARKEEPER  TO  HIS  SWEETHEART  .         .         .         .         .n 

THE  NIHILIST 13 

THE  BEER  SALOON  CAT 16 

THE  INVENTOR 18 

A  WARRIOR  BOLD  .........  19 

THE  TOMCAT'S  SERENADE 21 

A  CENTAUR  SPEAKS 23 

TRIALS  OF  A  WAITER     ........  25 

THE  DRUG  CLERK          ........  27 

"GOING  FOR  THE  CASH"       .......  29 

THE  GHOST  OF  THE  PERIOD          ......  31 

DISTRACTION  ..........  32 

"PRETTY  POLL!" 34 

A  BUTCHER  SINGS  TO  ms  LOVE 36 

THE  MILLENNIUM  .........  38 

OUR  NAVY      ..........  40 

LIBERALITY 4- 

As  USUAL        ..........  44 


vi  Contents. 


THE  CALEDONIAN  BAGPIPER'S  HARD  LUCK  ....  46 

POLITENESS 48 

THE  COOK'S  APPEAL  TO  HIS  LOVE        .....  50 

A  KIND  OF  TRAVELLER          .......  53 

ONLY  ONE  BEER    .        .        .         .         .         .        .        .         .55 

A  PEN  SPEAKS 57 

THE  MONSTER  FROM  THRACE 59 

THE  STEAMSHIP  STEWARDESS 61 

A  FARMER'S  TRIALS 63 

ETIQUETTE  MAD 65 

THE  HOTEL  CLERK 66 

THE  MODERN  CRITIC 68 

THE  CRAZY  TRAVELLER 70 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 72 

MONGREL  MATING 73 

THE  GERMAN  LECTURER        .......  74 

THE  TOURIST  OF  THE  YEAR  2000 76 

THE  WAY  I  WON  HER 78 

STIMULATED So 

A  HEN  ON  HER  EGGS 82 

His  WILL 84 

A  SURPRISE    ..........  88 

A  KIND  OF  SUBSCRIBER         .......  90 

METHUSELAH  SPEAKS  TO  MRS.  METHUSELAH       ...  92 

THE  RUSSIAN  POET 94 

A  WOMAN'S  CONFESSION 96 

A  STRANGE  COURTSHIP 97 

THE  PIANIST  WHO  HAD   RECEIVED   HALF  A   LESSON  FROM 

LISZT        ..........  100 

HUMBUG  THE  GOOD 102 

MY  MERMAID  MATE 104 

THE  LAY  OF  A  DAHOMEY  LOVER  106 


Contents.  vii 

PAGE 

THE  REVERIE  OF  A  CRAZY  FARMER 108 

DUTCH  RAILROADS         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .no 

EVOLUTION  IN  ANATOMY 112 

SCARED  BY  THE  SCRIBBLERS  .        .         .        .        .         .        .114 

A  LETTER-CARRIER'S  LAMENT        .        .        .         .        .         .116 

THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  LIBRARY  CLERK        .        .         .         .118 

ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  A  CYCLOPS        .        .        .        .         .120 

HUNTING  IN  SOUTH  AFRICA 122 

A  TEMPERANCE  LECTURER 125 

THE  INVALID 127 

A  WRECK 129 

THE  BOTANIST       .........     131 

A  BLUE-STOCKING  .        .         .        .        .        .         .         .         .133 

THE  POET'S  CURIOSITIES        .......     135 

THE  TUGBOAT         .        .        .         .         .        .         .         .        .137 

THE  GREAT  BILLIARD  MATCH       ......     139 

THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  BOARDING-HOUSE  SERVANT-GIRL     .     142 

THE  RAILROAD  CONDUCTOR 144 

HER  GYMNAST 147 

Too  SWEET  FOR  ANYTHING  .......     149 

THE  ROYAL  TOUCH       .        .         .        .        .        .        .         .152 

No  EDUCATION       .        .        .        .        .        .        .         ,         .154 

A  BARBER'S  TRIALS 157 

THE  GIRL  ENTHUSIAST 159 

THE  POLITE  CITY 162 

THE  ASTRONOMER  .........     165 

MY  WILL 168 

A  LOCOMOTIVE  SPEAKS  ........     172 

A  DONATION 174 

A  BIRD  FANCIER'S  LOVE  SONG 176 

THE  JOKING  DOCTOR 179 

THE  SONG  OF  A  CHEMIST  181 


VI 11 


THE  MEDIUM          .... 
THE  MENAGERIE  AND  THE  LOCOMOTIVE 
THE  CRUEL  DOCTOR      .... 
A  KIND  OF  CRITIC         .... 
THE  NEW  VERSION  OF  THE  BIBLE 
THE  DELIGHTS  OF  DOOM 

COOL 

AN  UNDERTAKER'S  TRIALS     . 

PLEASURES  OF  ROYALTY 

A  WRITER      . 

WHAT  is  IT?  . 

BEAUTIES  OF  PRONUNCIATION 

IMAGINATION  ...... 

TASTEFULLY  TATTOOED 

A  DREAM 

A  RHAPSODY 

ONE  KIND  OF  WRITER  .... 
RETURNED  WITH  THANKS 


PAGE 

184 
1 86 
189 
191 

193 
196 
108 
200 
202 
204 
206 
208 
209 

212 
214 

216 

217 

219 


*^%^JS' 


FACT   AND   FANCY 


FACT  AND  FANCY. 

SERPENTS  are  charmed  by  whistling,  so  books  say, 
And  cherish  tunes  in  minor  like  their  life  ; 

While  bears  will  sit  most  quietly  all  day 
If  sweetly  played  to  on  the  Bengal  fife. 

Spiders  grow  merry  when  the  violin 

With  powerful  strings  is  delicately  played  ; 

And  mottled  lizards  glory  in  the  din 
Of  blatant  trumpets  at  a  street  parade. 

Fauns  and  gazelles  most  ardently  rejoice 

Whene'er  they  hear,  on  some  green,  grassy  slope, 

The  mellow  accents  of  a  tinker's  voice  ; 
And  likewise,  also,  doth  the  antelope. 

Canaries  revel  in  the  flageolet ; 

A  silvery  bell  will  charm  the  Yorkshire  ox  ; 
And  church-chimes  bring  a  shiver  of  regret 

Unto  the  bosom  of  the  Arctic  fox. 


Now,  if  these  things  are  true  of  certain  beasts, 
Why  should  not  others  equally  enjoy 

Music's  rare  grace  and  sweet  symphonic  feasts, 
And  with  pure  melody  their  craniums  cloy. 

i 


Fact  and  Fancy. 

Perhaps  the  brindled  gnu  and  Nubian  yak 

Would  sell  their  horns  the  tambourine  to  hear. 

The  leopard,  too,  may  doat  on  Offenbach  ; 
The  crocodile  may  worship  Meyerbeer. 

Who  knows  ?     The  pig  may  risk  his  precious  days 
To  listen  to  the  priestly  xylophone  ; 

And  the  gay  ostrich  may  with  unction  praise 
The  bass  staccati  of  a  Dutch  trombone. 

Sleek  Lapland  elks  may  doat  on  Auber's  lays, 
And  Wagner  may  inspire  the  roofless  cats  ; 

While  Mozart's  scherzo  may  with  rapture  raise 
The  very  fur  from  off  Virginian  bats. 

Verdi's  strong  strains  may  calm  the  fierce  raccoon, 
And  Schubert  may  distress  the  faithful  Spitz  ; 

And  perhaps  the  old  Bohemian  Girl's  last  tune 
May  give  the  cynocephalus  the  fits  ! 

For,  't  is  a  stern  fact  and  a  well-known  thing 
That  the  tame  mule,  likewise  the  jackass  bland, 

Delight  to  hear  a  "  nigger  minstrel"  sing, 
And  revel  in  a  tenth-rate  German  band. 


THE    CANDID  WAITER. 

A  RESTAURANT  I  walked  into  one  day. 

Feeling  the  pangs  of  hunger  thro'  me  dart, 
And  quickly  sitting  down,  without  delay 

I  asked  the  whiskered  waiter  for  the  carte. 

Among  the  viands  that  entranced  my  eye, 

I  saw  a  filet  a  la  Pompadour  j 
'T  was  sixty  cents,  the  price  was  not  too  high, 

I  felt  that  meat  my  palate  would  allure. 

But  the  calm  waiter  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  Don't  take  that  dish,  't  is  out  of  cow  and  tough, 
Besides,  the  sauce  is  made  of  lager  beer, 

And,  what  is  more,  they  do  not  give  enough." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  candor,  and  I  said, 
"  Give  me  this  duck-stew  a  la  William  Tell." 
And  he  replied,  "  'T  is  buzzard  stuffed  with  lead, 
And  if  you  eat  't  will  surely  give  you  "-    •"  Well 

Well,  well,"  I  cried,  "  give  me  some  corned-beef  hash, 
And  six  nice  cutlets  from  the  guileless  lamb  "  ; 

But  this  strange  waiter  cried,  "  Be  not  so  rash, 
Our  beef  is  old  bull,  and  our  lamb  is  ram." 
3 


4  The  Candid  Waiter. 

"  Confound    it — bring   some    eggs."     "  Nay,    nay,"    he 

sighed, 

"  Our  boss  collects  our  eggs  upon  the  stage  ; 
He  is  an  actor  of  the  kind  called  '  snide,' 
And  all  his  hen  fruit  is  renowned  for  age." 

"  Then,  by  the  Holy  Gods  !  bring  on  a  steak, 
A  simple  steak,  with  gravy,  all  alone." 

"  Hist  !"  he  replied,  "  our  steaks  your  jaw  would  break  ; 
They  're  made  of  rubber,  celluloid,  and  bone." 

"  Indeed  !     Well  bring  me  a  salad  in  a  bowl, 

With  that  and  bread  I  '11  make  my  meal,  alas  !" 

"  Nay,  ask  not  that,"  he  lisped,  "  for  on  my  soul, 
The  lettuce  here  is  made  of  skunk-weed  grass." 

"  Well,  if  that 's  so,  kind  man,  give  me  advice. 

What  can  I  take,  my  hunger  to  appease  ? 
Tell  me,  fond  waiter,  what  you  have  that  's  nice, 
And  I  will  thank  you  on  my  bended  knees." 

Then  moaned  the  waiter  in  my  rosy  ear 

(While  killing  flies  with  many  dexterous  welts), 
"  To  speak  the  truth  most  honest  and  sincere, 

I  think  you  'd  better  breakfast  somewhere  else  !" 


THE  CRITICAL  ACTOR. 

A  FRIEND  presented  me  one  day 

To  a  new  star  just  rising  : 
A  man  of  thirty  springs,  we  '11  say, 

And  dressed  in  style  surprising. 

He  chatted  glibly,  drinking  beer, 

About  theatric  questions  ; 
And  deigned  to  whisper  in  my  ear 

His  critiques  and  suggestions. 

He  said,  "  Upon  my  word  and  truth, 
One  hundred  times  I  Ve  stated, 

Miss  Davenport  and  Edwin  Booth 
Are  awfully  o'errated. 

"  Miss  Anderson,  I  do  not  think, 

For  starring 's  worth  a  penny  ; 
She  '11  fizzle  out  as  quick  as  wink, 

Of  chic  she  has  n't  any. 

"  There  's  Lotta,  well,  she  's  half  played  out, 

Barrett  is  sixty  easy  ; 
And  Jefferson,  without  a  doubt, 

Is  getting  old  and  wheezy. 

5 


The  Critical  Actor. 

"  Old  Coquelin,  who  from  Paris  came, 
Lacked  style  and  art  and  humor  ; 

While  Sarah  Bernhardt  's  very  tame, 
When  passion  should  consume  her. 

"  Bandmann  is  good  in  many  a  role, 

There  's  no  use  of  denying  ; 
But  then,  you  know,  he  has  no  soul, 

His  intellect  is  dying. 

"  Florence  does  to  the  past  belong, 

I  never  cross  his  portal. 
That  man  has  done  the  stage  more  wrong 

Than  any  other  mortal." 

Then  he  arose,  and  with  a  leer 

Off  to  his  theatre  started, 
Leaving  me  there  to  pay  his  beer 

As  soon  as  he  departed. 

Of  course,  I  had  no  word  to  say, 

Because  he  talked  so  gaily  ; 
But  I  was  told,  the  following  day, 

That  he  was  "  supe  "  for  Daly. 


A  MAN  SLEEPS. 

HIS    EAR    EJACULATES. 

I  WEARY  of  the  life  he  makes  me  lead. 

My  tender  drum  my  master  loves  to  blight, 
And  when  half  deaf  and  in  my  sorest  need, 

He  plays  "  Tannhaiiser  "  to  me  half  the  night. 

HIS    EYE    ENUNCIATES. 

My  case,  dear  Ear,  I  really  think  is  worse, 
Because  no  pleasure  upon  earth  I  find. 

He  makes  me  read  the  German  print  I  curse, 

And  which,  of  course,  will  shortly  make  me  blind. 

HIS    MOUTH    MURMURS. 

Alas  !  I  suffer  too.     My  teeth  he  breaks 
By  gnawing  nasty  pretzels,  sour  and  tough, 

And  of  abominable  spicy  cakes 

My  master  never  seems  to  have  enough. 

HIS    NOSE    NOTIFIES. 

'T  is  sad,  my  friends,  but  sadder  is  my  fate, 
Because  he  fills  me  with  his  moist  rappees, 

That  odious  snuff  we  all  abominate — 

And  sixty  times  a  day  he  makes  me  sneeze. 

7 


A  Man  Sleeps. 


HIS    LIPS    LISP. 


He  soils  my  beauty,  rosy,  rich,  and  ripe, 
With  Harlem  Conchas,  viler  cigarettes, 

And  when  that 's  through  he  takes  a  wretched  pipe 
And  with  foul  nicotine  my  tissue  wets. 


HIS    HEART    HALLOOS. 


Ah  friends,  that 's  naught.    I,  his  poor  beating  heart, 
Have  in  our  joint  career  unhappier  been, 

For  I,  his  most  important,  noble  part, 
Am  daily  sullied  by  distressing  sin. 

HIS   STOMACH    SPEAKS. 

Your  lots  are  hard,  O  bosom  friends,  but  still 

My  luck  is  far  more  terrible  I  fear, 
Because  my  master,  whether  well  or  ill, 

Fills  me  with  gallons  of  imported  beer. 

/  cannot  stand  it,  and  as  you  exist 

Solely  through  me,  I  will  all  fates  defy, 

For,  far  too  weak  to  struggle  or  resist, 
I  think  I  '11  give  up  work  and  let  him  die. 


HE  LOVED  AND  HE  SKIPPED  AWAY. 

BESIDE  my  cheerful  fire  to  dream 

This  evening  I  have  tarried  ; 
To  think  again,  in  bliss  supreme, 

Of  all  the  girls  I  married. 

Of  late  my  memory  is  not  sound, 

And  greater  is  the  pity, 
For  I  most  heartlessly  confound 

Belinda,  Jane,  and  Kitty. 

As  for  the  name  of  my  first  wife, 

Who  took  my  boyish  fancy, 
I  cannot  tell,  upon  my  life, 

If  it  was  Lu  or  Nancy. 

And  I  undoubtedly  forget 

The  lineaments  of  Aggie  ; 
I  rather  think  she  was  brunette — 

No, — that  was  little  Maggie. 

My  precious  list  is  here  to  tell, 
Longer  than  Don  Giovanni's — 

That 's  right ;  eight  Sues,  one  Isabel, 
Twelve  Kates,  and  sixteen  Annies. 
9 


io   He  Loved  and  Skipped  Away. 

The  Don  with  me  could  never  vie, 

A  harder  share  I  carried  ; 
He  only  loved  his  girls,  while  I 

Was  always  fairly  married  ! 

There  's  May,  of  whom  I  was  so  fond, 

And  there  was  jolly  Dora — 
Now  let  me  see  ;  was  she  a  blonde? 

No,  that  was  Leonora. 

I  heard  they  died  ;  of  Mary  Janes, 

I  've  had  about  a  dozen  ; 
Three  Wilhelminas,  four  Elaines, 

And  one  of  them  my  cousin. 

And  in  the  South,  defying  laws, 

Of  quadroons  I  had  twenty, 
While  way  out  West,  three  blooming  squaws, 

And  Kickapoos  in  plenty. 

But  I  must  cease  this  talk  to-day, 
These  lists  my  mind  have  fuddled. 

About  my  spouses,  I  must  say, 
I  am  completely  muddled. 

Bachelor  life  I  do  not  find 

So  very  hard  and  dreary, 
And,  of  this  search  for  womankind, 

I  'm  really  getting  weary. 

'T  is  time  to  cease  this  life  of  snares, 

Both  criminal  and  vicious  ; 
Bah  ! — I  forgot  those  girls  up  stairs  ! 

The  youngest  is  delicious  ! 


THE  BARKEEPER  TO  HIS  SWEETHEART. 

I  'M  writing  now,  my  lovely  Sue, 

Beside  a  smoking  toddy, 
To  say  that  I  belong  to  you 

In  spirit  and  in  body. 

I  yearn  to  praise  your  eyes  so  fair, 
Those  orbs  as  brown  as  sherry, 

And  tell  you  that  your  rippling  hair 
Hath  hues  like  "  Tom  and  Jerry." 

Your  wit  pops  up  like  ginger  beer, 

'T  is  varied  as  a  tulip  ; 
And  your  delicious  breath,  my  dear, 

Is  sweeter  than  a  julep. 

You  know  I  've  sworn  to  love  you  long, 
But  words  we  will  not  bandy  ; 

I  simply  state  my  love  is  strong, 
Yes,  quite  as  strong  as  brandy. 

Take  pity  on  the  fluttering  heart 
Your  eyes  have  filled  with  gashes  ; 

I  cannot  stand  sly  Cupid's  dart 
As  I  stand  whisky  smashes. 


12    The  Barkeeper  s  Sweetheart. 

Life  unto  me  without  thy  face 
Hath  neither  taste  nor  odor  ; 

'T  is  tame,  and  flat,  and  commonplace, 
Like  selzer  or  plain  soda. 

Alas  !  I  dream  of  you  so  much, 

I  think  of  you  so  madly, 
That  I  begin  to  lose  my  touch, 

And  mix  my  cocktails  badly. 

I  make  my  sangarees  so  weak 
That  they  would  vex  a  Quaker  ; 

Last  night  I  let  a  beer  keg  leak 
And  lost  my  silver  "  shaker." 

In  fact,  if  by  your  proud  disdain, 

I  'm  left  without  a  guider, 
I  soon  will  lose  my  mighty  brain, 

And  serve  "  stone  fence  "  for  cider. 

For  grim  despair  each  dismal  night 
Comes  down  upon  me  thicker, 

And  oh,  sweet  Sue,  if  you  don't  write 
I  '11  have  to  take  to  liquor. 


THE  NIHILIST. 

His  name  was  Ivan  Adalbert 

Michailoff  Orfulrysky, 
And  at  St.  Petersburg  he  dwelt, 

In  Rue  Explodoffivski. 

Deep  in  a  cellar  dark  he  slept, 
Mephitic,  close,  and  narrow, 

And  all  the  awful  things  he  kept 
Would  freeze  a  monarch's  marrow. 

At  four  A.M.  he  would  creep  up 
To  scan  the  gray  horizon, 

And  in  a  Borgia-looking  cup 
Would  mix  obnoxious  "  pizen." 

And  with  wild  placards  in  his  hat, 
And  lighted  bomb-shells  handy, 

He  'd  go  to  hunt  the  autocrat, 
Rather  the  worse  for  brandy. 

Under  his  bed,  concealed  from  sight, 

He  kept  a  big  torpedo, 
Enough  to  fill  all  kings  with  fright 

From  Warsaw  to  Toledo. 


The  Nihilist. 

And  every  crevice  in  the  wall, 

Each  rat-hole  in  his  banister, 
Was  filled  with  objects  to  appal  : 

Grenades  and  grape  and  canister  ! 

With  boomerangs  his  stove  was  packed, 

Enough  to  kill  ten  nations  ; 
And  in  each  nook  were  Chassepots  stacked, 

And  misspelt  proclamations. 

His  sleeves  were  crammed  with  aconite, 

Strychnine  was  in  his  locket ; 
And  twenty  pounds  of  dynamite 

Were  always  in  his  pocket. 

For  of  the  Czar's  mysterious  life 

He  swore  to  be  the  solver, 
And  for  that  purpose  kept  a  knife, 

Brass  knuckles,  and  revolver. 

If  all  things  failed,  he  likewise  had, 

To  martyrize  and  bleed  him, 
A  poem  called  "  The  Spring  is  Glad," 

And  two  new  plays  to  read  him. 

But,  ah  !  Ivan  was  prisoner  made 

While  placarding  the  city, 
And  his  poor  dwelling  was  betrayed 

By  one  of  the  Committee. 

They  found  enough  material  then 
In  that  room,  close  and  murky, 

To  arm  six  hundred  thousand  men 
And  march  right  into  Turkey. 


The  Nihilist. 

So  he  was  hung,  although  with  awe 
He  swore  his  preparations 

Were  only  for  his  mother-in-law 
And  some  of  her  relations  ! 


THE  BEER  SALOON  CAT. 

MALTREATED,  scorned,  ill-fed,  abused, 
I  wander  round  the  great  saloon, 

Knowing  my  life  so  badly  used, 
Will  end  in  horrid  manner  soon. 

My  mistress  has  no  love  for  me, 
She  never  knew  I  once  was  sleek  ; 

And  yet  I  might  a  Venus  be, 

Did  she  not  scald  me  twice  a  week  ! 

As  for  my  master,  should  I  dare 
Before  his  eyes  my  paws  to  lick, 

I  "m  very  sure  that  then  and  there, 
He  would  salute  me  with  a  kick  ! 

And,  oh,  the  satire  and  the  pain  ! 

I,  a  most  wretched,  feeble  wreck, 
Am  called  by  every  one  "  Elaine," 

And  have  blue  ribbons  round  my  neck  ! 

But,  to  be  truthful,  I  must  say, 
Their  symmetry  is  disarranged  ; 

And  that  for  eighteen  months  to-day, 

Their  odious  knots  have  not  been  changed. 
16 


The  Beer  Saloon  Cat.          17 

In  fact,  my  life  's  a  dream  of  fear 
Since  first  I  saw  this  dreaded  house  ; 

I  principally  live  on  beer, 

And  never  once  have  caught  a  mouse  ! 

Beside  the  stove  an  hour  to  pass 

On  wintry  nights,  I  am  not  loath ; 
But  if  found  out,  I  hear,  alas  ! 

The  thunders  of  a  German  oath. 

And  then,  unless  I  use  my  legs 

In  ways  that  would  make  lightning  pale, 

Some  one  will  deluge  me  with  dregs, 
Or  throw  hot  water  at  my  tail  ! 

And  I,  who  hate  the  world  unkind, 
I,  who  am  famished  and  oppressed, 

Care  not,  so  long  as  I  can  find 

In  some  bright  future,  peace  and  rest. 

And  that  is  why  when  I  shall  see 

My  master  writing  "  Mutton  Pie  " 
Upon  the  bill  of  fare,  in  glee 

I  calmly  will  prepare  to  die  ! 


THE  INVENTOR. 

AN  idea  struck  his  mind, 

He  was  elate — 
A  new  thing  of  its  kind, 

Bound  to  be  great. 

To  work  he  did  prepare, 
And  straightway  bought 

Instruments  choice  and  rare, 
Just  as  he  ought  ; 

Chemicals  in  a  cup, 

And  secret  springs  : 
And  then  he  builded  up 

A  thing  with  rings, 

With  rivets,  screws,  and  nails- 
Working  all  night. 

With  genius  nothing  fails, 
His  plan  was  right. 

The  motive  power  was  there, 

'T  was  done  at  last  ; 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 

And  chuckled  fast. 

One  proof  was  needed  more, 

He  had  great  trust  ; 
The  thing  moved  on  the  floor 

And  then — it  bust  ! 
iS 


A  WARRIOR  BOLD. 

"  To  win  thy  love,  I  would,  unflinching,  meet 
The  fiercest  rat  e'er  harbored  in  thy  house, 

And  to  protect  thee,  oh  my  peerless  sweet, 
I  'd  dare  the  arena  with  a  famished  louse. 

"  The  awful  bee  that  booms  around  the  air 
I  'd  slay  for  thee  and  thy  embrace  divine, 

And  I  would  meet  the  tree-toad  in  his  lair 
And  knock  his  odious  spirit  thro'  his  spine. 

"  I  'd  taunt  with  scorn  the  fat,  defiant  mite, 
I  'd  brave  the  cockroach  on  the  kitchen  floor, 

And  with  a  hundred  June  bugs  half  the  night 
I  'd  fight  for  thee,  sweet  angel  I  adore. 

"  The  fat,  terrific  gold-fish  in  the  globe 
Would  scare  me  not,  for  I  am  free  of  sins, 

Upon  the  rim  I  'd  haughtily  disrobe, 

And  knife  in  hand  would  dive  into  his  fins. 

"  I  'd  carve  his  gills  and  flay  each  aureate  scale, 
I  'd  boomerang  his  dorsal  to  a  shred, 

I  'd  excavate  the  rudder  in  his  tail, 

And  leave  him  floating  on  his  stomach — dead. 
19 


A  Warrior  Bold. 

"  Mightier  than  Gulliver  I  would  advance 
And  rend  the  liver  of  the  tater-bug, 

Upon  the  corpses  of  fierce  snails  I  'd  dance 
In  deadly  grasp  the  beetles  I  would  hug. 

"  To  win  a  kiss  from  thy  seraphic  lips 
I  'd  trample  on  the  caterpillar's  breast, 

I  'd  brave  the  vermin  that  infest  old  ships, 
I  'd  leave  the  fiendish  wasp  no  earthly  rest. 

"  I  would  feel  stronger,  nobler,  and  more  wise 
If  for  thy  sake  I  could  for  once  devour 

The  odious  gnats  obnoxious  to  thine  eyes, 
That  haunt  the  bowels  of  the  cauliflower. 

"  Yea  !  in  my  prowess  that  can  never  fail, 
To  win  thy  passion,  ardent  as  the  South, 

I  'd  massacre  the  horn-end  of  a  snail 

And  mash  the  grim  mosquito  in  the  mouth. 

"  I  'd  leave  my  blood,  my  essence  and  my  life 
In  fierce  encounter  with  the  nimble  mole. 

I  may  be  vanquished  in  the  awful  strife 

But  thou  willst'  get  the  last  howl  of  my  soul. 

"  And,  should  I  perish  in  the  unequal  fight, 
Come  to  my  tomb,  oh  love,  by  soft  dews  wet, 

And  in  the  starry  silence  of  the  night 

Smoke  all  the  bugs  off  with  thy  cigarette." 


THE  TOMCAT'S  SERENADE. 

LOVE,  on  the  shed  to-night, 

The  moon  shines  chaste  and  bright  ; 

Cloudless,  I  see  it  plow 
Its  glorious  pathway  through 
The  firmament's  deep  blue  : 
Miaou  ! 

The  wind  is  soft  and  still, 
Only  the  whip-poor-will 

Cries  on  the  willow  bough  ; 
Let  me  not  lonely  die, 
Hark  to  my  plaintive  sigh  : 


In  spite  of  my  dislikes, 

I  've  braved  the  fence's  spikes, 

My  rivals  all  know  how  ; 
For  weeks,  my  spirit  free 
Has  constant  been  to  thee  : 
' 


I  love  thy  dulcet  purr, 
And  the  delicious  fur 

Upon  thy  candid  brow  ; 
And  hold  in  reverent  awe 
The  soft  touch  of  thy  claw  : 
Miaou  ! 
21 


22       The  Tomcat s  Serenade. 

Malicious  cats  have  said 
To  thee,  that  I  was  red, 

And  colored  like  a  cow  ; 
'T  is  true,  but  hast  thou  seen 
Mine  eyes  of  emerald  green  ? 
MzVzou  ! 

Oh,  most  bewitching  beast, 
Come  to  the  dainty  feast 

That  I  have  ready  now  ! 
Of  fish  a  royal  slice, 
And  fourteen  little  mice  : 
Miaou  ! 

Angora,  with  blonde  hair, 
My  peerless  one  so  fair, 

Receive  my  loving  vow  ; 
The  Tomcats'  star  above 
Will  guard  our  noble  love  : 
Miaou  ! 

But  hark  :  what  is  that  sound  ? 
I  must  not  here  be  found  : 

There  's  going  to  be  a  row. 
Adieu  !     I  think  I  hear 
Some  brickbats  falling  near  : 
MIAOU  !     MIAOU  ! 


A  CENTAUR  SPEAKS. 

A  CENTAUR  gay  am  I,  half  man,  half  horse, 
A  blood  descendant  from  old  Chiron,  too  ; 

Endowed  with  wisdom  and  prodigious  force, 
A  miracle  of  beauty  entre  nous. 

I  drive  for  nothing,  being  my  own  team, 

Upon  myself  at  races  I  can  bet  ; 
My  life  is  one  sweet  human-equine  dream, 

Its  rare  duality  I  ne'er  regret. 

I  feed  my  horse-part  on  delicious  oats, 
Carrots  or  turnips  and  the  fragrant  hay  ; 

While  all  my  manly  portion  simply  dotes 
On  soft-shell  crabs  and  omelette  soufflee. 

I  love  to  smoke  my  redolent  cigar, 

And  drain  cool  bottles  of  old  English  ale  ; 

Watching  the  nimble  swallows  from  afar, 
Languidly  switching  flies  off  with  my  tail. 

The  gods  have  dowered  me  with  a  wondrous  gift, 

For  with  my  deadly  bow  I  fight  with  ease  ; 
While,  if  o'ermatched,  I  still  can  kick,  and  lift 
My  foes  audacious  o'er  the  highest  trees. 
23 


24  A  Centaur  Speaks. 

My  costume  is  most  dainty  and  unique, 
A  saddle  and  a  beaver  hat  I  wear  ; 

And  I  can  warble  in  the  purest  Greek, 
Or  softly  neigh  some  old  Italian  air. 

The  only  thing  on  earth  I  really  dread, 
Is,  when  I  romp  at  twilight  in  the  dew, 

To  feel  a  sudden  cold  assault  my  head, 
Because  with  that  I  get  the  glanders,  too. 

When  the  pure  dawn  is  rosy  with  the  sun, 
I  rise  and  in  the  streamlet  wash  my  face  ; 

And  when  that  duty  pleasantly  is  done, 
I  curry  down  my  body  with  great  grace. 

To  find  some  shady  and  sequestered  nook, 
Across  the  fields  like  mad  I  gaily  roam  ; 

Returning  thence  to  read  some  favorite  book,- 
The  parlor,  like  the  stable,  is  my  home. 

So,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  'd  rather  be 
Just  as  I  am,  a  horse  and  man,  for  then 

I  'm  better  than  most  specimens  I  see 

Walking  about,  half  donkeys  and  half  men. 


TRIALS  OF  A  WAITER. 

WHEN  my  money  was  all  squandered 

In  this  very  pleasant  land, 
To  a  restaurant  I  wandered, 

Which  was  slightly  second  hand. 

It  was  kept  by  an  Italian 

With  a  very  evil  stare, 
And  his  beefsteaks  were  of  stallion, 

And  his  mutton  chops  of  mare. 

But  the  wretch  a  fraud  pronounced  me, 

To  my  never-ending  grief, 
And  with  odious  language  bounced  me 

As  a  loafer  and  a  thief. 

Then  I  got  a  situation 

In  a  third-rate  cafe,  French, 

Where  I  lost  it  by  flirtation 

With  a  frowsky  kitchen-wench. 

Then  I  tried  a  good  old  German, 
Who  sold  liberwurst  and  beer, 

But  the  napkins  were  not  ermine, 
And  he  paid  me  by  the  year. 

25 


26  Trials  of  a  Waiter. 

So  I  tried  a  cafe,  Spanish, 

Where  the  cigarettes  were  fair, 

But  a  century  cannot  banish 
All  the  garlic  from  my  hair. 

Then  I  worked  in  hope,  still  trusting, 
With  Ching-Sang  who  paid  enough, 

But  his  cat-stews  were  disgusting, 
And  his  rats  were  always  tough. 

But  I  found  a  lunch-room  awful, 
Far  beneath  a  Bowery  stoop, 

Where  they  deemed  it  right  and  lawful 
To  have  roaches  in  the  soup. 

And  where,  quite  enough  to  sicken, 

They  would  fling  down  colored  checks, 

And  would  only  give  of  chicken, 
Some  cold  stuffing  and  the  necks. 

Still  I  say,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate, 
And  a  shameless  life  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  DRUG  CLERK. 

I  WEARY  of  a  life  like  this, 

Repose  I  'm  sadly  needing, 
But  chances  of  ulterior  bliss 

Are  rapidly  receding. 

How  can  I  'mid  poetic  sweets 

Divinely  bask  and  frolic, 
When  some  one  while  I  'm  reading  Keats, 

Comes  in  and  yells  with  colic  ? 

And  how  when  dreaming  of  soft  rills 
And  moonbeams  sympathetic, 

Can  I  prepare  a  pint  of  squills, 
Or  some  fierce,  brown  emetic  ? 

To  scan  the  laureate's  noble  book, 

I  have  no  time  nor  leisure, 
And  should  I  try  to  read  "  The  Brook,' 

I  'm  called  on  for  magnesia  ! 

And  when  grand  Milton  most  exalts 
My  mind  and  mood  and  manner, 

Ten  orders  come  for  Epsom  salts 
And  ipecacuana  ! 
27 


28 


The  Drug  Clerk. 

I  cannot  find,  I  grieve  to  say, 

A  single  moment  handy, 
And  I  believe  the  town  to-day 

Drinks  far  more  drugs  than  brandy ! 

The  mass  of  quinine  people  buy, 

Is  something  most  terrific, 
For  castor  oil  the  children  cry, 

The  whole  town  is  morbific  ! 

And  then,  besides,  a  dire  mistake 
Was  mine  to-day,  while  dreaming, 

The  cough-stuff  that  I  had  to  make, 
I  fear  with  strychnine  's  teeming  ! 

And  so  I  have  resolved  to-night, 

No  more  to  be  a  moaner, 
But  read  my  Byron  out  of  sight, 

Somewhere  in  Arizona. 


"GOING  FOR  THE  CASH." 

'T  is  a  strange  and  a  wonderful  city, 

A  mixture  of  splendor  and  shame, 
But  a  worm  gnaws  its  heart  without  pity, 

And  but  little  of  praise  can  it  claim. 
The  inhabitants,  harmed  by  the  canker, 

Grow  heedless,  and  reckless,  and  rash, 
While  the  aim  of  their  life  is  to  hanker 

For  chances  to  "  go  for  the  cash  "  ! 

'T  is  a  town  of  iron-nerved  politicians, 

Whose  power  is  as  great  as  their  zeal. 
Thro'  the  land  they  sow  seeds  of  seditions, 

And  reap  when  they  can, — if  not,  steal. 
Do  you  think  that  they  care  for  the  nation, 

For  their  country,  the  laws,  or  such  trash  ? 
No  indeed  !     All  may  go  to  damnation, 

If  they  can  but  "  go  for  the  cash." 

At  the  courts,  justice,  shunned  and  forgotten, 

Is  reviled  with  a  laugh  and  a  curse  ; 
'T  is  an  obsolete  word,  vague  and  rotten, 

And  it  blinks  its  blind  eyes  for  a  purse. 
Money  tears  every  statute  asunder, 

And  compels  every  jury  to  quash, 
While  talent  and  truth  fall  and  blunder, 

And  everyone  goes  for  "  the  cash  "  ! 
29 


30         "  Going  for  the  Cash" 

The  young  girls  of  the  city  are  beauties, 

World-famous  for  form  and  for  face  ; 
But  they  're  not  very  strong  at  house  duties, 

And  learn  only  to  waltz  well  with  grace. 
They  care  little  for  art,  or  its  rapture, 

Much  more  for  a  dress  or  a  sash, 
And  the  lovers  they  go  for  to  capture, 

Accept,  and  then  go  for  "  their  cash." 

There  are  preachers  who  speak  of  the  passions, 

Who  throw  in  a  word  here  and  there, 
Of  the  opera  bouffe  and  the  fashions, 

And  the  style  of  high  shoes  now  to  wear. 
They  prate  of  the  torments  of  sinners, 

Of  teeth  that  in  hell  grind  and  gnash, 
While  they  only  love  praise  and  good  dinners, 

And  go  with  a  will  for  "  the  cash  "  ! 

There  are  men  with  great  names  and  substantial, 

Of  fortune  and  standing,  who  take 
Much  delight  in  all  things  styled  financial, 

Who  put  millions  and  millions  at  stake  ; 
Does  the  thought  of  the  poor  ever  soften 

Their  hearts,  or  prevent  a  big  crash, 
That  breaks  out  in  Wall  street  so  often  ? 

Not  a  bit,  for  they  "  go  for  the  cash  "  ! 

So,  my  friend,  after  years  of  inspection, 

Of  study,  of  notice,  and  toil, 
I  think  I  have  caught  the  infection, 

That  springs  from  this  liberal  soil  : 
The  new  bank-notes  you  kindly  entrusted 

With  me,  must  now  pay  for  my  hash, 
For  dear  Alfred,  I  'm  hard  up,  and  "  busted," 

And,  like  Yankees,  I  '11  "  go  for  your  cash." 


THE  GHOST  OF  THE  PERIOD. 

IN  vain  from  mystic  realms  of  air, 

To  earth  I  glide  in  joy, 
No  longer  can  my  presence  scare, 

The  XlXth  century  boy. 

Within  his  fierce  and  fearless  heart, 
There  is  no  sign  of  dread — 

He  simply  says,  "  You  just  get  out, 
Or  else  I  '11  bust  your  head." 

In  cemeteries  damp  and  dark, 
Beneath  the  fir  trees'  dome, 

Or  in  some  dreary,  dismal  park, 
Disconsolate  I  roam. 

I  see  a  body-snatcher  pass 
To  seize  his  speechless  prey, 

And  gliding  o'er  the  withered  grass 
I  stand,  and  bar  the  way. 

But  terror  comes  not  to  his  eyes, 

No  anguish  veils  his  look, 
He  turns  around  and  simply  cries, 

"  Vamoose  the  ranch,  old  spook." 

What  can  I  do  ?  o'er  dell  and  lea, 
I  walk  from  twelve  till  five, 

With  no  more  notice  taken  of  me 
Than  if  I  were  alive. 


DISTRACTION. 

MY  wife  and  I  have  lived  for  many  years 

In  perfect  peace,  and  I  have  nothing  lacked, 

Were  it  not  for  a  hundred  trifling  fears 

Which  constantly  our  changing  minds  distract. 

I  'm  always  in  a  dream,  and  so  is  she  ; 

My  mind  is  vague,  absorbed,  and  so  is  hers  ; 
Wrapped  up  in  books  I  always  fail  to  see 

The  common  life  that  all  around  me  stirs. 

When  I  get  up  I  love  to  smoke,  and  read 

The  latest  news  from  north  and  east  or  south, 

But  always  try  to  fold  my  pipe,  indeed, 
And  put  the  morning  paper  in  my  mouth. 

I  often  take  my  early  bath  all  dressed, 

When  in  a  wild  and  most  forgetful  mood  ! 

And  then  disrobe  to  meet  some  breakfast  guest, 
And  gambol  in  the  parlor  nearly  nude. 

My  wife  's  a  woman,  I  must  really  say, 

Of  wonderful,  unquestioned  mental  powers  ; 

But  still  she  can  forget  things  every  day, 
And  often  boils  my  eggs  for  sixteen  hours. 

32 


Distraction.  33 

I  often  wish  to  take  a  cup  of  tea 

Before  my  hours  for  promenading  come, 

But  always,  by  some  curious  mystery, 
I  find  its  chief  ingredient  to  be  rum. 

When  taking  up  my  pen  to  work  to-day, 

On  "  Mental  Power  "  I  wished  to  write  a  lot  ; 

But  see  ! — at  present,  in  my  usual  way 
Of  mad  distractness,  that  I  have  not. 


" PRETTY  POLL ! " 

I  LOATHE  the  small  dimensions  of  my  cage  ; 

My  perch  and  ring  afford  but  little  fun  : 
A  hundred  trifles  fill  my  soul  with  rage, 

And  things  are  done  as  they  should  not  be  done. 

My  mistress  don't  know  how  to  mix  my  food  ; 

My  cuttle  's  old,  a  subject  of  fit  wrath  : 
And  then  her  giddy  Biddy  is  quite  rude, 

And  talks  to  me  in  Irish  at  my  bath. 

The  favorite  cat,  a  low  and  wretched  beast, 
Is  dressed  in  ribbands  when  it  takes  its  milk  ; 

On  chopped  up  sweetbreads  it  doth  often  feast  ; 
Its  couch  is  made  of  costly  cotton-silk. 

Still,  I  regard  it  with  less  jealous  force, 
Now  that  its  tail  is  fashioned  like  a  bob ; 

For  I  can  gladly  say  without  remorse, 
It  was  my  beak  that  did  the  blessed  job. 

My  owner  is  a  garrulous  old  maid, 

Full  of  strange  freaks  and  Bloomingdalian  whims, 
Who  passes  hours  within  the  garden  shade, 

Teaching  your  humble  servant  Watts's  hymns. 
34 


Pretty  Poll!'  35 


I  have  to  say,  before  I  seek  my  rest, 

A  dozen  prayers,  and  in  my  memory  keep 

Such  poems  as  she  fondly  calls  the  best  j 

For  instance — "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

I  'm  fed  on  lettuce,  pap,  and  nasty  rice, 

Held  in  her  thin  aristocratic  hand. 
Although  she  knows  I  doat  on  fruit  and  spice, 

And  glory  in  tomatoes,  raw  or  canned. 

I  sing  her  songs  and  madrigals  and  glees  : 
My  voice,  considering  that  I  am  a  bird, 

Is  p'rhaps  the  best  for  German  melodies 
That  any  living  mortal  ever  heard. 

My  repertory  's  very  choice  and  great, 
My  upper  register  is  strong  and  sweet, 

And  I  could  make  poor  Patti  quite  irate 
By  warbling  Traviata  in  the  street. 

But  my  old  mistress,  pillar  of  the  church, 
Frowns  at  my  choice  selections,  one  and  all, 

And  when  I  chirp  and  whistle  on  my  perch, 

She  makes  me  sing  the  Funeral  March  from  Saul. 

She  does  not  seem  to  know,  the  guileless  thing, 
That  I  lived  years  upon  the  Spanish  coast  ; 

That  Cuban  sailors  taught  me  how  to  sing  ; 
That  Spanish  is  the  language  I  love  most. 

So  some  day,  when  my  lettuce  is  not  fresh, 
I  '11  rouse  her  wildly  from  her  Sunday  sloth, 

And  make  cold  shivers  creep  along  her  flesh, 
By  thundering  forth  some  fierce  Castilian  oath  ! 


A  BUTCHER  SINGS  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

I  LOVE  thy  soft  and  liver-colored  eyes, 

And  thy  sweet,  lustrous  kidney-tinted  hair  ; 

Thy  glance  brings  to  my  heart  a  new  surprise, 
Thou  art  my  lamb,  delectable  and  fair. 

I  love  the  dainty  fluctuance  of  thy  breast, 

And  the  soft  flesh  that  shields  thy  cutlet  part  ; 

And  pure  as  sweetbreads,  or  a  love  confessed, 
Are  the  delicious  beatings  of  thy  heart. 

I  love  thy  tongue,  as  gentle  as  a  calf's, 

That  flashes  wit  and  repartees'  swift  points  ; 

And  I  adore  thy  beautiful  horse-laughs, 
And  yearn  to  clasp  thee  in  my  iron  joints. 

Thy  sleek,  lithe  limbs  are  rosy  like  a  steak, 
Thy  skin  is  fairer  than  fresh  marrow  white  ; 

I  'd  take  the  hide  off  legions  for  thy  sake, 
For  thou  art  my  prize  cow  and  my  delight. 

Thy  lips  are  redder  than  the  spring  veal's  gore, 
When  forth  it  gushes  on  my  brawny  arms  ; 

Thy  haslet-colored  temples  I  adore, 

No  juicy  meat  is  sweeter  than  thy  charms. 
36 


A  Butcher  Sings  to  his  Love.  37 

Thy  cheeks  are  round  and  plump,  like  lambkins'  fries, 
Thy  form,  like  graceful  ewes,  is  most  complete  ; 

And  the  sweet  music  of  thy  loving  sighs 
Is  like  the  sound  of  many  flocks  that  bleat. 

Thy  teeth  are  whiter  than  the  forest  deers, 
Thy  brow  is  like  a  filet  streaked  with  lard  ; 

And  oh  !  my  love,  just  judging  from  my  tears, 
I  have  been  panting  for  thee  pretty  hard. 

Therefore  be  mine,  oh  darling  of  my  heart, 
Give  me  thy  winning  love  serene  and  fresh  ; 

Let  us  be  joined  on  earth  no  more  to  part, 
Be  of  my  bone,  my  sinew  and  my  flesh. 


THE   MILLENNIUM. 

THERE  will  come  a  happy  and  glorious  time — 

At  least  so  the  preachers  tell — 
When  the  lion  and  lamb  in  every  clime 

In  a  wonderful  peace  will  dwell  ! 

When  all  will  result  in  a  feast  of  love, 
When  the  snail  will  live  with  the  yak, 

And  the  panther  will  ask  the  mottled  dove 
To  parade  on  his  hairy  back  ! 

The  asp  will  entwine  in  its  gentle  fold 

The  delightful  old  Polar  bear  ; 
And  the  festive  monkey,  for  gold  untold, 

Would  n't  tear  out  the  camel's  hair  ! 

How  splendid  those  days,  if  they  ever  come, 

Will  appear  to  a  race  unborn — 
To  see  a  wren  sing  on  a  baboon's  thumb, 

And  a  thrush  on  a  mastiff's  corn  ! 

How  strange  to  behold  the  serene  koodoo 

Protect  the  wild  ox  from  flies, 
And  witness  a  penguin,  or  even  two, 
Brush  the  tear  from  the  jaguar's  eyes  ! 

33 


The  Millennium.  39 

Then  the  cat  will  sport  with  the  frisky  mice, 

And  narrate  them  exciting  tales  ; 
While  the  wolf  and  kid,  in  a  simple  trice, 

Will  touch  glasses  of  English  ales  ! 

The  puma  will  play  with  the  elk  and  newt, 

With  a  dormouse  upon  his  leg  ; 
The  whims  of  the  leopard  the  ewe  will  suit, 

And  the  zebra  will  lay  an  egg  ! 

The  ocelot  then  will  protect  the  quail, 

And  dispel  all  the  wombat's  woes  ; 
While  the  sloth  will  arouse  his  sleepy  tail 

And  treat  weasels  to  drinks  and  shows  ! 

And  the  world  when  seeing  this  wondrous  sight 

Will  marvel  and  stand  transfixed, 
And  say,  "  We  suppose  that  the  thing  's  all  right, 

But,  by  Jove,  it  is  rather  mixed  !  " 


OUR  NAVY. 

WHEN  we  command  our  mighty  ships 

On  one  point  to  assemble, 
The  British  lion  bites  his  lips, 

And  powerful  nations  tremble. 

Poor  Mexico  is  much  distressed, 

And  many  starving  bigots 
In  Vera  Cruz  prefer  the  pest 

To  our  death-dealing  frigates. 

While  all  the  Spaniards  under  age 

Upon  the  Guadalquivir, 
Think  of  the  thunders  of  our  rage 

And  desolately  shiver. 

Enormous  sums  of  gold  we  paid 

For  this,  in  our  devotion, 
The  veriest  mite  !  we  have  displayed 

The  crack  fleet  of  the  ocean  ! 

Cutters  and  rams  we  have  at  length, 

All  newly  made  and  splendid, 
Marvels  of  speed,  while  grace  and  strength 

In  each  are  grandly  blended. 
40 


O^lr  Navy.  41 

But  then,  at  home  they  oft  remain 

Witholding  devastation, 
Content  to  feel  that  they  maintain 

The  honor  of  the  nation. 

We  do  this  to  protect  our  worth 

In  foreign  commerce  clearly, 
Which  is  the  envy  of  the  earth, 

And  which  increases  yearly. 

For  who  would  ever  dare  to  meet 

Our  battle  ships  tremendous, 
Or  dare  defy  our  model  fleet 

And  model  guns  stupendous  ? 

So,  only  portions  of  the  same 

Are  sent  around  as  roamers, 
Re-bottomed  Franklins  changed  in  name, 

And  old  Miantonamahs  ! 

And  our  fine  navy,  people  say, 

If  spared  by  the  junk  dealer, 
May  yet  contrive  in  some  wild  way 

To  thrash  poor  Venezuela. 


LIBERALITY. 

A  REAL  mania  I  had  to  give  nice  things  away, 

To  my  friends  any  time  in  the  year  ; 
I  would  do  so  at  night  and  I  'd  do  so  at  day  : 

Every  one  had  a  fine  souvenir. 

For  friend  A  who  was  fond  of  all  liqueurs  most  rare, 
I  would  spend  all  the  cash  I  could  get, 

And  would  fill  up  his  rusty  antique  etagere, 
With  the  sweetest  of  French  anisette. 

Now  friend  B  was  too  poor  to  drive  out  to  the  park, 
When  the  trees  produced  wormlets  in  May, 

So  I  rushed  to  my  bank,  keeping  everything  dark, 
And  I  bought  him  a  nag  and  coupe. 

My  chum  C  had  got  married  (a  real  pretty  girl), 

But  she  had  n't  a  red  for  her  dot  j 
So  I  bought  her  a  necklace  of  ruby  and  pearl, 

And  I  bought  him  a  house  and  a  lot. 

My  friend  D  failed  in  business  and  had  n't  a  cent, 

But  as  he  was  a  jolly  old  boy, 
I  gave  him  his  clothes,  and  I  paid  all  his  rent, 

And  I  filled  his  aorta  with  joy. 
42 


Liberality.  43 

My  friend  E  lost  his  fortune  in  Michigan  stocks, 

And  proposed  to  go  swiftly  to  hell  ; 
But  I  stopped  all  such  fooling,  kept  watch  on  the  docks, 

And  built  him  a  summer  hotel. 

My  friend  F's  shattered  health  caused  me  greatest  despair, 
To  destruction  he  seemed  to  be  hurled  ; 

So  to  save  his  dear  bones  and  change  climate  and  air, 
I  paid  for  his  trip  round  the  world  ! 

Now  they  every  one  thanked  me  and  called  me  a  king, 
And  years  after  they  all  grew  quite  rich  ; 

But  I  swear  that  none  ever  did  give  me  a  thing, 
Except  one,  and  he  gave  me  the  itch  ! 


AS  USUAL. 

A  PA.  train,  I  won't  say  where, 
Nor  will  I  name  the  station, 

I  took  to  breathe  the  country's  air, 
And  tackle  my  vacation. 

I  found  a  grimed  and  cinderous  seat, 
'Mid  soot  and  gaseous  vapors, 

And  then  prepared  in  ways  discreet 
To  read  the  morning  papers. 


I  had  the  Herald,  Times,  and  World, 

With  other  sheets  diurnal, 
Town  Topics  and  The  Sun  unfurled, 

And  with  them,  too,  Drake's  journal. 

I  had  a  Science  Magazine \ 

Being  a  bit  pedantic, 
And  divers  others  lay  between 

My  Harper's  and  Atlantic. 

I  had  of  novels  new  a  score, 
The  latest,  to  astound  me  ; 
While  forty  guide-books — even  more — 
Did  totally  surround  me. 
44 


As  Usual.  45 

My  favorite  works  upon  the  seats 

I  neatly  placed  ;  my  Schiller 
Was  bound  by  strings  to  Hood  and  Keats 
And  so  was  Daisy  Miller. 

My  Tenneyson,  in  which  I  pride, 
Was  there  its  pleasure  yielding  ; 

And  likewise,  resting  by  my  side, 
Were  Walter  Scott  and  Fielding. 

And  yet,  the  book  fiend,  hovering  nigh, 

Scanned  all  my  treasures  over, 
And  asked  me  if  I  would  n't  buy 

Red  Mike,  the  Bloody  Rover  ! 


THE  CALEDONIAN  BAGPIPER'S  HARD  LUCK. 

I  ROAM  about  the  streets  all  day, 

I  'm  full  of  snap  and  pluck, 
And  yet  I  am  obliged  to  say 

I  've  ne'er  had  any  luck. 

When  with  my  stirring  pipes  I  fare 

To  gain  my  daily  soup, 
I  frequently  and  everywhere 

Get  booted  off  a  stoop. 

And  when  I  dance  the  "  Highland  Fling  " 

Until  my  tongue  is  black, 
I  generally  get,  poor  thing, 

A  cart-rung  on  my  back. 

I  yell  in  areas  dark  and  cold, 

My  native  Scottish  strains, 
And  then  receive,  instead  of  gold, 

A  kicking  for  my  pains. 

And  yet  I  sing  in  sweetest  ways 

About  the  Melrose  moon, 
And  sometimes  a  high  C  I  raise 

In  "  Edinboro'  Toon." 
46 


The  Caledonian  Bagpiper.     47 

But  't  is  in  vain  that  I  am  spry, 

I  always  fail  to  make 
Sufficient  in  my  tramps  to  buy 

Some  haggis,  gin,  and  cake. 

Folks  giggle  when  they  see  my  kilt, 

My  claymore  and  bare  knees, 
Although  I  know  that  I  am  built 

Like  Alcibiades. 

And  yet  I  come  from  that  sweet  land, 

By  me  forgotten  not ; 
Land  of  Ben  Nevis,  stern  and  grand, 

The  itch  and  Walter  Scott  ! 


POLITENESS. 

AT  first  they  played  Bizet's  Toreador, 

While  I  at  my  high  window  blandly  smiled, 

Then  they  ground  William  Tell  for  an  encore, 

And  with  some  strains  from  Faust  an  hour  beguiled. 

All  these  were  followed  by  some  gems  of  Strauss, 
While  I  stood  listening  to  each  charming  air, 

Then  came  a  German  ballad,  Nix  Kommt,  'raus, 
And  still  I  lingered  nonchalantly  there. 

I  had  not  one  red  cent  upon  me  then 

Wherewith  to  revel  in  the  flowing  cup, 
But  they  knew  not  this  odious  fact,  poor  men, 

And  so  they  sent  their  starving  monkey  up. 

His  frame  was  clad  in  robes  of  deepest  red, 
A  great  blue  bang  was  tied  upon  his  tail, 

Plumes,  once  light  yellow,  dangled  on  his  head, 
And  his  lean  legs  were  sheathed  in  rusty  mail. 

He  climbed  with  startling  ease  the  granite  stoop 
(Ah  !  such,  indeed,  is  the  great  power  of  will  !  ) 

And,  with  a  grunt,  like  some  one  low  with  croup, 
He  doffed  his  feathery  hat  upon  the  sill. 
48 


Politeness. 


49 


He  grinned  and  pirouetted  in  the  sun  ; 

Of  many  courteous  bows  there  was  no  lack, 
While  I,  in  pure  politeness  ne'er  outdone, 

With  a  sweet  smile,  like  Talleyrand,  bowed  back  ! 


THE  COOK'S  APPEAL  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

MY  views  on  celibacy  thou 

Hast  utterly  demolished  ; 
For  brighter  are  thine  eyes  and  brow 

Than  any  pan  I  've  polished  ! 

I  held  a  passion  for  thee  long 

(Which  hath  not  made  me  fatter)  ; 

It  rises  now,  unique  and  strong, 
Like  well-conducted  batter  ! 

I  never  in  my  life,  I  'm  sure, 

In  all  my  cuisine's  splendor, 
Have  found  a  chop  as  soft  and  pure 

As  thy  hand,  white  and  tender. 

For  naught  thy  radiant  grace  can  mar, 
And,  though  thy  heart  is  stony, 

Thy  little  teeth  are  whiter  far 
Than  rice  or  macaroni. 

My  faith  in  thee  is  great  and  good, 

And  noble  as  was  Bunyan's, 
And  I  scorn  rivals  as  I  would 

A  ragout  without  onions  ! 
50 


The  Cook's  Appeal.  51 

I  'm  fain,  O  siren  of  my  heart, 

To  sing  thy  praises  louder  ! 
Perfection  of  all  girls  thou  art, 

As  perfect  as  my  chowder. 

And  never  tell  me  that  thy  praise 

Is  not  sincere  or  valid  ; 
I  '11  cling  to  thee  as  mayonnaise 

Doth  cling  about  a  salad. 

Days  of  ill-luck  may  come  to  me, 

Days  of  most  dire  disaster, 
But  still  I  '11  be  as  true  to  thee 

As  cruets  to  their  castor. 

I  am  without  thee  incomplete, 

As  smelts  before  the  snows  are  ! 
As  royal  dinners  minus  meat, 

As  shad  without  their  roes  are  ! 

Therefore,  O  ox-eyed  Juno  mine  ! 

Why  shun  connubial  blisses  ? 
Let  me  once  taste,  more  sweet  than  wine, 

The  bouillon  of  thy  kisses  ! 

Does  not  the  truffle  far  in  France, 

Dying  of  love  and  stricken, 
Cross  the  wild  ocean's  broad  expanse, 

To  meet  its  destined  chicken  ? 

Yes,  yes,  Love  does  these  wondrous  things, 
In  manners  strange  and  splendid  ; 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  sufferings, 
Alas,  we  are  not  blended. 


The  Cook's  Appeal. 

Alone  and  sad,  while  lacking  thee, 

Through  life's  dull  paths  I  Ve  rambled  ; 

Only  say  "  Yes,"  and  we  will  be 
Legitimately  scrambled  ! 

And  shouldst  thou  prove  thyself  unkind, 

To  me  so  pure,  so  lovin', 
Some  day  my  calcined  bones  thou  'It  find 

Reposing  in  the  oven  ! 

And  then  thy  haughty  heart  will  ache 

To  know,  by  such  abuses, 
That  I  have  perished  for  thy  sake, 

Dissolved  in  my  own  juices. 


A   KIND   OF   TRAVELLER. 

HE  goes  from  Ecuador  to  Maine  ; 

He  studies  every  people, 
He  visits  every  crypt  in  Spain, 

And  every  German  steeple. 

He  roams  among  Liberian  rocks, 
He  haunts  Thibet's  wild  region  ; 

Men  find  him  on  the  Styrian  lochs, 
And  on  the  lakes  Norwegian. 

Greece  he  has  seen  a  dozen  times, 
Iceland  has  hailed  him  loudly, 

And  in  the  bland  Hawaiian  climes, 
He  oft  has  wandered  proudly. 

He  scales  the  Himalayan  peaks, 
He  strolls  through  vales  Ionian, 

He  hunts  the  buffalo  with  Creeks, 
And  puns  in  Patagonian  ! 

He  goes  to  Europe  every  year, 
Is  known  to  all  the  sailors, 

And  in  his  life  has  seen,  I  fear, 
More  than  ten  Bayard  Taylors  ! 

53 


54        A  Kind  of  Traveller. 

A  modern  Wandering  Jew  is  he, 

A  student  of  all  races, 
And  when  there  's  nothing  left  to  see 

In  strange,  exotic  places, 

He  homeward  turns  for  fame  to  look, 
Quite  sure  that  he  will  win  it, 

And  writes  a  most  ambitious  book, 
Without  one  new  thing  in  it ! 


ONLY   ONE    BEER. 

HE  enters  in  your  beer  saloon, 
With  kindly  words  of  cheer  ; 
"  How  do  you  do,  my  boy  ? "  he  cries, 
"  Things  look  right  cosy  here  ! 

"  My  health  ?     None  of  the  best,  you  know  ; 

Kidney  complaint,  I  fear. 
I  just  popped  in  to  have  a  chat  ; 
I  '11  only  take  one  beer." 

His  gaze  while  speaking  thus  to  you 

Most  surely  is  sincere  ; 
You  pity  him,  and  really  think 

He  '11  only  take  one  beer. 

Then  you  converse  of  various  things, 

Ridiculous  or  dear  ; 
And  ere  a  minute  has  elapsed 

You  rap  again  for  beer. 

Now  he  forgets  his  feeble  health, 

His  eyes  are  calm  and  clear  ; 
And  while  you  pay  another  dime, 

He  drinks  his  second  beer. 

55 


Only  One  Beer. 

Then  as  the  conversation  glows, 

And  other  friends  appear, 
This  man  who  only  came  for  one, 

Drinks  eight  more  mugs  of  beer ! 

His  voice  grows  loud  as  he  narrates 

His  wonderful  career, 
And  down  his  restless  throat  he  pours, 

At  your  expense,  more  beer. 

And  when  dull  midnight  comes  around  ; 

In  ways  far  from  austere, 
You  carry  to  some  distant  stoop 

The  man  who  takes  one  beer  ! 


A  PEN  SPEAKS. 

I  AM  of  gold,  and  by  an  artist  made, 

I  pride  myself  I  cost  so  very  dear  ; 
For  fifteen  shillings  for  my  worth  were  paid, 

And  unsurpassed  has  been  my  long  career. 

Passed  round  for  many  years,  from  hand  to  hand, 
I  've  signed,  I  know,  full  many  a  famous  name  ; 

And  once  I  wrote  an  epic  poem  grand, 
Which  gave  its  author  an  immortal  fame. 

I  've  written  lovers'  letters  by  the  score, 

I  signed  the  checks  for  countless  sums  of  cash  ; 

A  pundist  used  me  when  compiling  lore, 
A  scribbler  handled  me  when  writing  trash. 

And  once  a  schoolboy  used  me  to  indite 
A  diatribe  against  his  teacher's  wife  ; 

While  burnished  up  like  new  one  Christmas  night 
I  served  as  gift  to  one  made  blind  for  life  ! 

Then  on  a  hotel  inkstand  I  did  dwell 
For  many  weeks,  and  finally  was  sold 

To  one  poor  lout  who  could  not  write  or  spell, 
Who  pawned  me  by  the  way,  for  I  was  gold. 

57 


58  A  Pen  Speaks. 

After  I  wrote  a  song,  quite  charming  too, 
Dashed  off  by  genius  at  a  single  breath  ; 

And  in  a  regal  hand,  when  I  was  new, 

I  shuddering  signed  the  warrant  for  a  death  ! 

A  thousand  dunning  letters  have  been  mine, 
A  thousand  articles,  both  good  and  bad, 

I  have  been  forced  to  praise  and  to  malign 

To  make  hearts  joyful  and  to  make  hearts  sad. 

Thro'  countless  hands  I  rapidly  have  passed  ; 

I  have  seen  strange  things,  and  I  begin  to  know 
The  trials  and  tribulations  vast 

Of  pen  life,  but  I  'm  falling  very  low. 

For  now  a  peasant  owns  my  golden  grace  ; 

He  holds  me  in  his  horny  hand  unkind, 
While  trying  in  most  comic  ways  to  trace 

The  boorish  need  that  fills  his  vapid  mind. 

He  poises  me  distractedly  above 

The  only  sheet  of  paper  he  has  got ! 
His  thoughts  are  full  of  passion  and  of  love, 

And  ah  !  poor  wretch  !  he  does  not  know  I  blot. 


THE  MONSTER  FROM  THRACE. 

I  LOVE  my  dear  Jimmy  for  all  kinds  of  things, 
For  there  's  no  one  like  him  on  the  earth, 

I  'd  spurn  for  his  sake  the  vile  passion  of  kings 
And  reject  English  dukedoms  with  mirth. 

Such  beauty  in  man  is  most  wondrous  and  new 

And  assuredly  never  was  seen, 
For  one  of  Jim's  eyes  is  a  heavenly  blue, 

And  the  other  a  heavenly  green  ! 

One  eyebrow  is  black  and  the  other  is  white, 
Yet  as  white  as  the  storm-driven  snow  ; 

And  his  ears,  which  are  ever  my  joy  and  delight, 
Down  his  shoulders  triumphantly  grow. 

His  teeth  are  kept  in  by  strong  caoutchouc  bands, 

Which  lend  him  additional  charms, 
And  my  darling  has  three  thumbs  on  each  of  his  hands 

And  a  gooseberry  patch  on  both  arms. 

And  oh,  how  dear  Jimmy  delightfully  drinks 

The  sweet  cocktail  or  strong  sangaree, 
With  his  green  eye  on  fire  like  a  famishing  lynx 

And  his  blue  optic  winking  at  me. 

59 


60    The  Monster  from  Thrace. 

He  's  at  the  museum  on  show  every  day, 

They  call  him  "  The  Monster  from  Thrace," 

But  I  love  and  adore  him  and  willingly  pay 
My  bright  silver  to  own  his  sweet  face. 


THE  STEAMSHIP  STEWARDESS. 

SHE  usually  weighs  twenty  stone, 

Her  age  is  near  to  fifty  ; 
But  all  the  passengers  must  own 

That  she  is  spry  and  thrifty. 

She  's  crossed  the  tempest-driven  sea 

In  every  kind  of  season, 
And  knows  of  every  malady, 

The  remedy  and  reason. 

She  's  kind  to  ladies  when  they  're  sick 

As  any  sister  mason  ; 
And,  for  her  size,  is  mighty  quick 

In  bringing  in  the  basin. 

She  tells  them  that  the  pain  won't  last, 

And  many  fibs  she  forges, 
And  when  the  first  attack  has  passed, 

She  in  the  store-room  gorges. 

For  it  requires  a  mass  of  meat, 
Of  soup,  and  tea,  and  brandy, 

To  keep  upon  her  mammoth  feet 
This  giantess  so  handy. 
61 


62    The  Steamship  Stewardess, 

Then  when  her  work  is  nicely  done, 
Up  in  her  berth  quite  frisky, 

She  gently  climbs  at  set  of  sun, 
Perfumed  with  Irish  whisky. 

And  in  the  night,  above  the  roar 
Of  all  the  waves,  you  wonder, 

While  listening  to  her  fiendish  snore, 
Like  fog-horns  filled  with  thunder. 


A  FARMER'S  TRIALS. 

I  'VE  had  most  dreadful  luck  this  year, 

From  early  August  until  May, 
And  all  my  beauteous  crops,  I  fear, 

Are  doomed  to  desolate  decay. 

The  bugs  my  Murphies  first  devoured, 
The  ants  upon  my  dahlias  lunched, 

My  mammoth  cabbages  all  soured, 

And  famished  skunks  my  egg-plants  munched. 

My  yellow  squash  was  taken  off 

By  odious  caterpillar  bites, 
And  measles  and  the  whooping-cough 

Settled  my  luck  the  last  three  nights. 

Compound  neuralgia  of  the  back 

Laid  out  my  bob-nosed,  pale  green  peas, 

And  odious  jaundice  cleared  the  walk 
Of  all  my  beans  and  celeries. 

By  croup  my  early  spinach  bust, 

And  winds  malarial,  quagmire-born, 

Knocked  into  nothingness  and  dust 
My  prize  verbenas  and  new  corn. 
63 


64          A  Farmer  s  Trials. 

Death's  awful  rattle  then  I  heard, 
For  more  than  sixteen  mortal  hours, 

In  the  sweet  breasts  of  my  preferred, 
And  lovely  white-leaved  cauliflowers. 

My  honeysuckles,  pure  and  rich, 
Perished  by  rheumatism  keen, 

My  turnips  suffered  with  the  itch, 

My  oyster-plant  pegged  out  with  spleen. 

All  my  tomatoes  gave  up  ghosts, 

My  champion  chilblain  sore  oppressed  ; 

And  my  poor  onions  in  great  hosts 
Died  of  the  chocolate-colored  pest. 

A  single  one  I  could  not  save, 
Cholera  all  my  lettuce  stripped, 

My  garden  was  an  open  grave — 
My  grass-plot  was  an  awful  crypt. 

Lumbago  struck  my  Chinese  herbs  ; 

A  felon  fixed  my  last  poor  rose, 
And  really  I  lack  words  and  verbs 

To  picture  to  you  all  my  woes. 

For  my  asparagus  decayed 
By  ennui  and  a  haunted  sleep, 

And  acres  of  the  petal-blade 

From  earth  my  water-cress  did  sweep. 

So  all  that  's  left  to  me,  I  think, 
Is  to  accept  fate  in  good  part, 

And  swiftly  try  to  die  of  drink, 
Encouraged  by  a  broken  heart. 


ETIQUETTE   MAD. 

YES,  Mabel,  to-day  I  saw  Harry  ; 

With  blushes  his  cheeks  were  suffused, 
As  he  asked  me — yes,  asked  me  to  marry, 

And  I — would  you  dream  it  ? — refused. 

He  is  handsome  and  brilliant  and  witty, 
He  has  eight  thousand  dollars  a  year, 

He  's  the  beau  of  the  clubs  and  the  city — 
Yet  I  jilted  him  calmly,  my  dear  ! 

He  has  family,  pride,  and  high  station, 
He  enjoys  all  the  good  things  on  earth, 

And  he  promised,  without  hesitation, 

I  should  have  all  my  costumes  from  Worth. 

Yes,  and  if  I  consented  to  marriage, 
I  could  choose  the  best  opera  box, 

And  wear  furs  when  I  rode  in  my  carriage 
From  the  costliest  kind  of  blue  fox  ! 

And  yet  't  would  be  folly  to  marry, 
Tho'  I  love  him  far  better  than  life, 

For,  my  dearest,  my  darling,  sweet  Harry, 
At  dinner  will  eat  with  his  knife  ! 


65 


THE  HOTEL  CLERK. 

RADIANT  in  spotless  linen  he  will  stand, 
Smiling  and  unctuous,  keen-eyed  and  alert, 

A  gold  pen-holder  in  his  jewelled  hand, 
A  huge  Brazilian  diamond  in  his  shirt. 

He  grins  when  pretty  damsels  come  to  look 
If  friends  arrived  by  the  last  city  train, 

With  nimble  hands  he  offers  them  the  book, 
Accompanied  by  smiles  that  turn  their  brain. 

His  curled  hair  reeks  of  ponmade  a  la  rose, 
His  bushy  eyebrows  smell  of  bandoline, 

And  in  his  small  talk  he  divinely  throws 
The  wit  and  languor  of  a  Valois  Queen. 

He  answers  every  question  with  calm  ease, 
He  knows  the  last  town-news,  the  best  cigar, 

He  finds  the  coolest  spots,  the  greenest  trees, 
He  also  knows  the  near  road  to  the  bar. 

He  winks  and  chuckles,  compliments  and  jokes  ; 

His  giant  mind  knows  everybody's  room, 
He  has  the  pedigree  of  all  the  folks, 

And  yet  his  role  doth  modestly  assume. 
66 


The  Hotel  Clerk.  67 

His  talents  in  society  are  great, 

He  bangs  the  piano  and  the  bones,  to  boot, 
And  he  is  never  known  to  hesitate 

To  play  a  Chinese  ballad  on  the  flute. 

At  billiards  he  is  equal  to  Gamier, 

At  euchre  he  is  sharper  than  a  lynx. 
At  everything  he 's  first  by  night  or  day ; 

First  leading  prayers  and  first  in  leading  drinks. 

He  is  a  perfect  and  enduring  joy, 

Made  after  Nature's  best  and  holiest  law, 

And  only  twice  an  hour  he  tells  the  boy, 

"  Wake  up,  you  brute,  or  I  '11  smash  you  in  the  jaw  !  " 


THE    MODERN   CRITIC. 

WITH  pompous  mien  and  all-important  air, 
He  '11  say  your  views  are  premature  and  rash, 

And  with  a  grave  grandiloquence  declare 
That  all  the  verse  of  later  years  is  trash. 

To  satisfy  his  most  aesthetic  mind, 

In  all  the  modern  work  he  labors  through, 

He  grieves  to  state  he  really  cannot  find 

One  worthy  line,  one  thought  supremely  new. 

He  calmly  adds  that  it  appears  to  him 

There  's  lack  of  power  in  overrated  Keats, 

That  Shelley  's  very  commonplace  and  dim, 
That  Tennyson  the  same  old  song  repeats. 

You  ask  :    "  And  Swinburne  ?  "     Well,  he  has  some  fire, 
He  will  allow  ;  "  but  then  so  very  crude." 

"  Browning  ?  " — "  Bah  !  verbose,  of  his  style  you  tire." 
"  Hugo  ?  " — "  A  bard  of  second  magnitude." 

"  Longfellow  ?  " — "  Dabbles  in  all  kinds  of  verse." 
"  Lowell  ?  "-  -"  A  fraud,  and  so  was  Bryant,  too. 

They  do  not  write,"  he  cries,  "  in  language  terse, 
As  real  and  god-born  poets  always  do." 

63 


The  Modern  Critic.          69 

Then  he  will  say,  to  your  surprise, 

That  Whittier  is  a  rhymester,  very  low  ; 
And  finally,  will  harshly  criticise 

The  morbid  ravings  of  that  "  crazy  Poe." 

"  Rosetti  ?  " — "  Never  made  a  decent  rhyme," 
He  shrieks,  while  Bret  Harte  has  no  lofty  flight. 

"  Byron  ?  " — "  A  loon,  he  never  was  sublime." 

"  And    William    Morris  ? "     "  Don't    know    how    to 
write." 

And  as  he  talks  it  seems  as  if  the  air 

Were  tinted  red  with  Tennysonian  gore  ; 

While  bits  of  lacerated  Baudelaire 
Seem  to  exist  and  quiver  on  the  floor. 

And  as  you  gasp  and  dare  not  add  a  word, 
This  critic  gently  smiles  and  says  to  you  : 

"  I  wrote  a  poem  which  you  never  heard  ; 
I  think  you  will  admire  it — it  is  new." 


THE  CRAZY  TRAVELLER. 

I  'D  love  to  kiss  the  Blarney  stone  at  Rome, 
And  rove  thro'  glades  of  Abyssinian  maples, 

And  I  would  gladly  make  my  future  home 

High  on  the  barren,  snow-clad  hills  of  Naples. 

Sweet  would  it  be  to  pass  my  life  away 

Listening  in  Scottish  mosques  to  some  Te  Deum, 

And  take  a  sail  in  Saragossa  bay, 
Or  fool  about  Alaska's  Coliseum. 

I  fondly  think  I  would  most  happy  be 
To  live  in  Labrador,  that  sunny  Eden, 

And,  in  the  Spring,  to  cross  the  Polish  sea, 
To  hunt  the  timid  elephants  of  Sweden. 

But  sweeter  far,  on  warm  autumnal  nights, 

'  Twould  be  to  skate  through  Holland  vast  and  hilly, 

And,  with  my  chosen  girl,  see  all  the  sights 
Of  Limerick's  Louvre  and  Lisbon's  Piccadilly. 


Yea  !  and  my  Muse  could  warble  her  content 
Far  better  than  a  Gerster  or  a  Patti, 

If  I  could  see  the  sphinxes  girdling  Ghent 
And  view  the  leaning  towers  of  Cincinnati. 


The  Crazy  Traveller.         7* 

Oh  happy  day  !  to  wander  everywhere 

Like  that  poor  Jew  of  Thackeray's,  Mr.  Fagin, 

And  see  Long  Island's  obelisk  pierce  the  air 
Or  count  the  minarets  of  Copenhagen  ! 

Surpassing  joy  'twould  be  !  and  then,  again 
To  fly  from  sphere  to  planet  like  a  fairy, 

And  watch  from  some  pagoda  in  Ukraine, 
The  golden  domes  of  southern  Tipperary. 

This  is  my  dream,  but  here,  alas,  I  stay, 
Bereft  of  money,  travelling-means  and  pity, 

Compelled  to  take  a  ferry  every  day, 

And  see  the  glistening  wharves  of  Jersey  City. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

To  win  new  worlds  Alexander  sought, 
And  to  the  field  a  million  warriors  brought, 
The  end  for  him  was  death  and  those  who  fought. 

Caesar's  ambition  shone  upon  his  face, 

He  needed  earth,  the  stars,  the  skies,  and  space. 

Bellona  was  his  goddess  and  his  grace. 

To  gain  a  mastery  over  sea  and  land, 
Napoleon,  his  moves  prodigious  planned, 
Millions  of  soldiers  died  at  his  command. 

And  yet  a  man  with  rheumatism  bent, 
With  starving  eyes  and  by  exhaustion  spent, 
Cries  every  night  :  "  I  sell  THE  WORLD — one  cent.' 


MONGREL  MATING. 

THY  sweet  baiser  fait  revivre  I'espoir, 

And  dawning  Love  can  fashion  thee  most  fair. 

Ah  !  j'aime  indeed  le parfum  de  ton  hair, 

And  I  could  worship  thee  from  morn  to  soir. 

Mon  Dieu  !  for  thee  I  'd  sacrifice  devoir, 

And  would  forget  the  teachings  of  ma  mere, 

Believe  in  everything,  however  noir, 

And  brave  the  dreadful  boot-kicks  of  your/m?. 

Thou  art  mine  ange,  my  own  petite  cherie, 

Thou  art  the  star  I  sue  in  passion's  rdle, 

The  girl  I  wish  to  marry,  tout  de  suite. 

Therefore,  become  my  bride,  my  soft  amie, 

The  tre'sor  of  my  esprit  and  my  soul, 

And  to  ice-cream  je  willingly  will  treat. 


73 


THE  GERMAN  LECTURER. 

KARL  SCHWARTZBALH  was  the  creature's  name, 

A  genuine  Teuton  stunner, 
And  all  the  world  knew  that  he  came 

From  Obenheimerbrunner. 

At  Denver  Hall  he  opened  sales, 

His  subject  was  "  The  Motion 
And  Influence  of  Fishes  Tails 

Upon  the  Indian  Ocean." 

He  entered,  bowing,  on  the  stage, 
While  hearts  with  pleasure  fluttered, 

He  was  near  eighty  years  of  age, 
And  infamously  stuttered. 

He  seemed  to  be  the  worse  for  beer, 

In  consequence,  elated  ; 
He  had  a  wen  behind  his  ear, 

And  both  arms  amputated. 


His  cork  leg  plainly  could  be  seen 
By  the  vast  throng  delighted, 

And  goggles  of  an  emerald  green 
Proved  him  to  be  near-sighted. 
74 


The  German  Lecturer.        75 

His  head  was  balder  than  a  coot, 

Part  of  his  nose  was  missing, 
And  on  his  limbs  a  mottled  suit 

Started  the  public's  hissing. 

His  general  presence  to  the  crowd, 

Of  genius  never  hinted  ; 
He  had  the  heaves,  he  spoke  too  loud, 

And  insolently  squinted. 

Crutches  upheld  his  withered  spine — 
The  programme  said  't  was  shattered  ; 

But  he  was  such  a  wreck,  in  fine, 
This  trifle  little  mattered. 

He  then  began  his  lines  to  try, 

And  various  scenes  he  painted, 
Until  a  duck-egg  with  his  eye 

Became  quite  well  acquainted. 

He  howled  and  shrieked,  in  accents  wild, 

About  all  kinds  of  fishes  ; 
His  false  teeth  fell  out  when  he  smiled, 

His  head  kept  dodging  dishes, 

Until  the  audience  arose, 

A  beastly  fraud  pronounced  him, 
And  with  a  bullet  in  his  nose, 

Unanimously  bounced  him. 


THE  TOURIST  OF  THE  YEAR  2000. 

HE  will  sail  for  Egypt  some  sunny  day, 

To  visit  the  Nile  o'erjoyed, 
And  will  find  they  have  carted  the  Sphinx  away 

And  that  Cheops  has  been  destroyed. 

He  will  go  to  Pisa,  the  quaint  and  free, 

The  town  of  mediaeval  power, 
And  will  reach  it  only  in  time  to  see 

The  collapse  of  the  leaning  tower. 

To  Helvetia  then  he  will  be  expressed, 

By  the  glaciers  to  be  awed, 
But  will  find  the  Jungfrau  and  all  the  rest 

Of  the  glittering  mountains  thawed  ! 

Then  to  "  do  up  "  Amsterdam  he  will  haste, 

But  will  learn,  on  Ostende's  shore, 
That  the  dams  are  broken,  the  lands  made  waste, 

And  that  Holland  exists  no  more  ! 

In  those  coming  days  of  intense  surprise 

The  tourist  no  chance  will  hold 
In  catching  a  glimpse  of  Italian  skies, 

For  in  Rome  he  will  die  of  cold. 

76 


The  Tourist.  77 

Vesuvius  long  will  have  ceased  to  fret, 

In  Mexico  peace  will  reign, 
And  there  won't  be  a  single  cigarette 

To  be  purchased  in  France  or  Spain  ! 

Then  the  Mammoth  Cave  will  be  all  caved  in, 

The  lakes  of  Killarney,  dry, 
And  the  porcelain  turrets  of  old  Nankin 

Will  no  longer  infest  the  sky. 

So  he  will  return  to  his  dear  New  York, 

Where  for  years  he  has  not  been, 
And  will  find  it  a  Brobdignagian  Cork 

Or  a  parody  on  Berlin  ! 


THE  WAY  I  WON  HER. 

WE  walked  among  the  flowers  and  ferns, 

Talking  of  things  botanic, 
When  first  my  passion  found  release 

In  words  and  sighs  volcanic. 

She  was  from  Boston,  so  was  I — 

It  was  the  same  old  story, 
Of  talent,  beauty,  love,  and  youth, 

In  a  conservatory. 

"  Alice,"  I  cried,  "  thy  soul  is  pure 

As  yon  white  Phyllocactus  ! 
And  thy  sweet  lips  are  like  the  core 
Of  the  red  Leptomachtus  ! 

"  Dearer  to  me  are  thy  blue  eyes 

Than  burrs  concurbitaceous  ! 
And  that  rare  plant  Linnaeus  said 
Had  ovules  cinchoraceous  ! 

"  No  herb  exotic,  to  my  mind, 

Hath  odor  so  delicious 
As  thy  sweet  breath,  like  pinks  in  June, 
Or  leaves  holosericeous  ! 

73 


The  Way  I  Won  Her. 

"  I  cherish  germs  of  love  for  thee  ; 

In  thy  heart  I  would  plant  them  I 
More  rare  than  sepals  pentaloid, 
Or  bright  Ixionanthum  ! 

"  Answer  me,  love,  my  living  rose, 

Dispel  these  vague  doubts  hideous  ; 
Let  me  but  call  you  for  all  time, 
My  own  Monochlamydeous  !  " 

Blushing,  she  reached  a  covert  spot, 
Where  parents  ne'er  would  think  us  ; 

And  gave  me  with  a  charming  smile, 
A  purple  Leptorhynchus  ! 

I  knew  its  meaning  well,  and  plucked 

An  Eucalyptus  Willis, 
Which  she  placed  in  her  corsage,  with 

A  yellow  Machrophyllus. 

Among  sweet  Blepharadiae, 
And  fragrant  Lophostralis, 

I  won  that  learned  Boston  girl, 
The  blonde  aesthetic  Alice  ! 


STIMULATED. 

HE  was  so  awfully  blase, 

So  tired  and  apathetic, 
That  stimulants  he  took  each  day, 

To  make  him  energetic. 

But  brandy  cocktails  by  the  hour 

Poured  down,  could  not  delight  him, 

And  even  Cayenne  pepper-sour, 
Failed  sadly  to  excite  him  ! 

And  when  he  found  this  could  not  stir 
His  blood,  made  thin  by  pleasures, 

Something  was  wrong  he  did  infer, 
And  took  to  other  measures. 

So  when  he  went  to  a  soiree 

To  dazzle  and  adorn  it, 
Within  his  glove  he  'd  hide  away 

A  fierce,  gigantic  hornet. 

And  maddened  by  its  rousing  sting 
And  wild  cachuchas  furious, 

He  sometimes  said  a  clever  thing 
But  oftener  a  curious. 
80 


Stimulated.  8 1 

Some  nights  he  'd  slowly  roast  his  ear 

With  sulphur,  and  the  paining 
Especially  when  most  severe, 

Made  him  quite  entertaining. 

A  wasp  secreted  in  his  nose 

Was  known  to  make  him  charming, 

And  when  he  razored  all  his  toes, 
The  small  talk  was  alarming. 

A  moxa  burning  up  his  spine 

Produced  results  delicious, 
And  Prussic  acid  in  his  wine 

Dispelled  his  spleen  pernicious. 

But,  when  he  took  his  "  Henry  Clay  " 

(The  finest  in  the  city), 
And  singed  his  eyebrows  half  away, 

He  really  could  be  witty. 

But  ah,  alas,  one  fatal  night, 

When  there  was  to  be  dancing, 
He  girt  his  loins  with  dynamite 

Simply  to  be  entrancing. 

In  quantity  a  slip  he  made, 

And  when  it  burst  it  bore  him 
About  ten  miles,  and  now  the  shade 

Of  Greenwood  hovers  o'er  him. 
e 


A  HEN  ON  HER  EGGS. 

AH  !  ah  !  this  time  I  've  got,  I  think,  just  five, 
White  as  the  moon  upon  an  August  night. 

I  long  to  see  the  contents  well  alive, 

For  those  chicks,  still  unborn,  are  my  delight. 

My  eldest  egg — now  let  me  pause  and  see  : 
He  '11  be  a  valiant  rooster-bird,  of  course, 

Having  the  grace  of  the  ailantus  tree, 

A  linnet's  voice,  the  brute  strength  of  a  horse. 

My  second,  I  must  very  fondly  dream, 
Will  be  a  poule  de  lettres,  and  very  wise  ; 

She  in  linguistics  will  be  held  supreme, 
And  she  will  learn  the  idiom  of  the  flies. 

That  third,  delicious,  speckled  egg  of  mine 
Will  bring  me  forth  the  handsomest  of  males, 

With  military  genius,  I  opine — 

A  fowl  the  foe  of  garden  slugs  and  snails. 

That  other  there — that  dotted  little  dear — 
Will  cause  my  poor  maternal  mind  regret  ; 

For  she  will  be,  I  positively  fear, 
The  wayward  Cleopatra  of  my  set. 

82 


A  Hen  On  Her  Eggs.        83 

But,  ah  !  that  one  that  has  a  beauty  mark 

Right  on  the  top,  from  duty  ne'er  will  quail  ; 

She,  Christian-like,  will  suffer  in  the  dark 
And  be  the  chickens'  Florence  Nightingale. 

So  saying,  the  hen  clucked  loudly  in  her  joy, 
And  waved  her  wings  upon  the  unhatched  eggs  ; 

But  then  appeared  a  stalwart  poultry-boy, 

With  squinting  eyes  and  odious  crooked  legs  ! 

He  seized  her  offspring  right  before  her  eyes, 
Took  the  three  best,  the  ones  she  prized  the  most, 

And,  to  the  mother's  infinite  surprise, 

Vanished  around  the  corner  like  a  ghost ! 

And,  while  she  hurried  after  him  to  say, 

"  Spare,  spare  my  children,  and  be  ever  blest !  " 

A  weasel,  who  had  seen  no  food  that  day, 

Happened  to  tramp  along,  and  sucked  the  rest. 


HIS  WILL. 

A    BOHEMIAN    TESTAMENT. 

RESOLVED  this  night  to  die  without  regret, 

By  deadly  poisons  I  contrived  to  get 

On  trust  from  an  apothecary's  boy  ; 

I  think  that  I  can  well  my  time  employ 

Before  I  perish  in  my  discontent, 

By  scribbling  down  my  will  and  testament. 

Therefore,  I,  sound  and  sane  of  mind,  do  say, 

That,  Monte-Cristo  like,  I  give  away 

All  that  to-night  I  lawfully  possess, 

And  that  is  very  little,  I  confess. 

My  diamond  ring,  gold  set,  of  sterling  weight, 
Unto  my  love  I  cheerfully  donate  ; 
But  as  that  article  is  up  the  spout 
Her  faultless  hand,  I  fear,  must  go  without 
Its  dazzling  coruscations,  'less  she  choose 
To  get  it  from  the  meanest  of  all  Jews. 
If  so,  the  crumpled  ticket  she  will  find 
Hid  in  the  third  slat  of  the  unhinged  blind  ! 

When  I,  serene  and  beautiful,  lie  dead 
Upon  my  pillowless  old  feather  bed, 


His  Will.  85 


Let  no  one  ever  carelessly  assert 

The  right  to  touch  the  lace  upon  my  shirt  ! 

This  I  bequeath  to  the  ideal  chum 

Who  told  me  that  from  Flanders  it  did  come, 

Purchased  in  Mechlin,  very  rare  and  old  ; 

While  I,  who  never  have  been  badly  sold, 

Know  well  he  bought  it  in  this  happy  land, 

Far  down  the  Bowery,  and  at  second  hand  ! 


My  costly  wardrobe,  linen,  shoes,  and  hats, 
Beau  Brummel  scarfs  and  elegant  cravats, 
I  hereby  give,  although  it  draws  my  tears, 
To  be  sold  off  by  sordid  auctioneers  : 
And  if  the  lot  brings  in  a  dollar  bill, 
(This  is  my  testament  and  codicil) 
Let  it  be  given,  firmly  I  adjure, 
Unto  the  hungry  hosts  of  suffering  poor  ! 


My  colored  meerschaum  pipe,  I  hope  my  heirs 

Will  hand  unto  the  poor  old  man  down  stairs, 

Who  doffed  his  hat  to  me  the  other  day. 

I  know  he  made  an  error,  but  I  say, 

Give  him  my  darling  pipe  for  love  and  law — 

It  has  a  broken  stem  and  will  not  draw. 


I  also  offer  ten  original  plays, 
Written  in  by-gone,  glad  Bohemian  days, 
Unto  the  friend  who  said  "  they  are  a  treat, 
But  with  Sardou  you  never  can  compete  ; 
You  lack  the  fervor  of  a  Dumas  fils  ; 
Why  not  leave  luckless  managers  in  peace  ? 


His  Will. 

Renounce,  I  beg,  these  crazy  six  act  things, 
And  spare  the  public  many  sufferings  !  " 
To  him,  who,  having  all  my  essence  sapped, 
Would  hurry  home  my  fancies  to  adapt, 
I  leave  these  plays  beyond  all  further  claim  ; 
They  now  are  famous,  under  his  own  name  ! 


Hoping  my  landlord's  cultured  taste  to  suit, 
I  leave  to  him  my  best  enamelled  flute  ; 
One  of  the  many  thousand,  I  may  state, 
Once  played  upon  by  Frederick  the  Great ; 
And  to  his  child,  and  likewise  to  its  nurse, 
I  leave  my  harrowing  and  my  withering  curse  ! 


My  sudden  death  will  make  that  landlord  moan, 

For  in  this  city  I  have  lived  unknown  ; 

I  have  no  relatives,  nor  have  I  had 

A  single  friend  to  make  existence  glad, 

Except  himself,  and  he  I  know  will  pay 

The  men  who  drag  my  beauteous  form  away. 

I  ask  him  not  to  lavish  gaudy  flowers 

Upon  my  coffin,  or  place  Chinese  bowers 

Of  radiant  roses  round  my  jasper  tomb  ; 

All  that  averts  the  horror  of  death's  gloom, 

Is  now  to  positively  know,  that  he 

Will  be  compelled  by  law  to  bury  me  ! 


This  document,  arranged  with  legal  skill, 

Is,  as  I  said,  my  testament  and  will  ; 

The  awful  poison  on  the  table  stands  ; 

I  touch  it  with  my  white  and  ringless  hands  ; 


His  Will. 

Although  they  shake,  I  feel  that  I  am  bold, 
And  death  for  me  no  pain  or  shame  can  hold  ; 
But  now  that  I  such  fortitude  have  shown, 
This  fearful  suicide  I  will  postpone  ; 
And  as  my  room  seems  very  dark  and  drear, 
I  think  I  '11  toddle  out  and  take  a  beer  ! 


A  SURPRISE. 

SHE  stands  in  the  argent  moonlight, 

With  roses  in  her  hair. 
I  watch  ; — her  eyes  will  soon  light, 

Finding  my  letter  there  ; 
There  where  the  leaves  are  strewn  light 

Under  the  gaunt  elm  bare  ! 

She  leaves  the  ball-room's  splendor, 

Its  flattery,  glare,  and  heat 
For  me  ;  I  hear  the  tender 

Soft  tread  of  satined  feet ; 
What  would  I  not  surrender, 

Her  timorous  glance  to  meet  ! 

But  no  ;  I  must  dissemble. 

Radiant  with  love,  and  wise  ; 
How  she  will  start  and  tremble, 

And  flash  with  frightened  eyes, 
When  from  the  fern  and  bramble 

To  kiss  her  I  arise  ! 

But  hark  !     I  hear  her  seeking 
Another  path  than  this  ! 

83 


A  Surprise. 

(Confound  the  dry  twigs  creaking) 
Something  has  gone  amiss. 

What  ?  ah  !  I  hear  her  speaking  ! 
Good  heavens,  I  hear  a  kiss  ! 


Fierce  fevers  burn  me  torrid, 

Now  love  and  life  are  vain  ! 
I  saw  her  kiss  his  forehead — 

Hush  !  here  they  come — what  pain- 
By — gemini — 't  is  her  horrid 
Old  father  home  again  ! 


A  KIND  OF  SUBSCRIBER. 

I  'M  fond  of  reading  all  the  news, 

So  I  became  subscriber, 
To  a  good  standard  paper,  famed 

For  talent,  snap,  and  fibre. 

But  in  it  I  could  never  see 

One  item  interesting ! 
It  never  published  to  my  mind, 

A  column  worth  digesting  ! 

I  read  it  carefully  each  day, 

But  oh,  supreme  derision, 
I  never  saw  one  burglar's  death, 

Nor  heard  of  a  collision  ! 

No  brutal  brawls  were  spoken  of, 
No  earthquakes — no  destruction  ! 

No  maddened  men  who  hung  their  wives, 
Nor  even  a  seduction  ! 

I  never  in  its  pages  found, 

The  loss  of  any  steamer  ! 
Nor  the  heart-rending  suicide, 

Of  some  poetic  dreamer  ! 

No  stirring  news  of  grand  revenge, 
No  crime  in  foreign  places, 
9o 


A  Kind  of  Subscriber.        91 

No  tales  of  girls  who  vitriol  threw 
In  one  another's  faces  ! 


Nothing  in  fact  that  pleases  me, 
And  never  sign,  or  word  or — 

A  line  of  anything  about 

A  first-class,  fiendish  murder  ! 

Now  I,  who  am  a  real  just  man, 
Would  not  pronounce  it  gammon, 

If  once  a  while  it  wrote  up  plagues, 
Or  some  tremendous  famine  ! 

I  would  have  bought  it  all  my  life, 
Ay  !  and  its  columns  cherished, 

If  it  had  only  had  one  storm, 
When  eighty  sailors  perished  ! 

It  seems  there  are  no  more  mad  dogs, 
No  knives,  no  Prussic  acid  ! 

And,  judging  by  this  sheet,  I  think 
Mankind  is  very  placid  ! 

But  if  the  editor,  who  says 

He  is  the  people's  tutor, 
Does  not  report  some  decent  rows, 

I  '11  go  with  my  six-shooter, 

And  with  the  skill  I  have  to  hit 

At  thirty  yards  a  taper, 
I  '11  give  nis  staff  a  bit  of  news 

The  next  day  for  that  paper  ! 


METHUSELAH    SPEAKS  TO 
MRS.  METHUSELAH. 

OH,  dost  them  remember  our  youthful  hours, 

When  I  was  thy  humble  beau  ? 
When  we  laughed  and  sighed  in  the  daisy  bowers 

800  years  ago  ? 

When  the  brightest  of  futures  before  us  lay 

One  hopeful,  delicious  track  ; 
When  I  was  a  dude  not  a  bit  blas^ 

Some  trifling  centuries  back  ? 

Can'st  thou  recall  the  fond  days  of  yore, 

Our  travels  o'er  land  and  sea, 
When  I  was  154 

And  you  were  just  93  ? 

Can'st  thou  summon  up  in  thy  mind  anew, 

The  charms  of  our  love  divine, 
When  you  were  272 

And  I  was  309  ? 

Ah  !  then  how  our  love  did  supremely  thrive, 
How  we  dwelt  in  a  mutual  Heaven, 

When  you  were  385, 
And  I  was  407  ! 

92 


Methuselah  Speaks.  93 

And  can  you  recall  in  your  present  state, 
For  old  age  makes  my  memory  sad, 

When  I  was  888 

The  first  spat  we  ever  had  ? 

And  how  on  my  back  you  broke  the  sticks, 

A  job  that  was  neatly  done, 
In  the  year  of  your  life  806, 

And  of  mine,  901  ? 

But  we  're  nearing  the  1000  now,  my  dear, 

We  no  longer  are  fresh  and  strong, 
Old  age  is  beginning  to  tell,  I  fear, 

And  we  cannot  linger  long. 

All  those  happy  days  are  forever  past, 

The  happiest  bards  have  sung, 
And  I  see  Death  coming,  with  mind  aghast, 

For  't  is  sad  to  die  so  young. 


THE  RUSSIAN  POET. 

HE  wrote  a  thousand  poems  to  the  Czar 
With  loyalty  intense  and  ardent  rhyme, 

He  likened  him  unto  the  A.  M.  star, 

And  called  his  person  godlike  and  sublime. 

He  praised  his  mighty  genius  and  his  will, 
To  laud  his  angel-eyes  he  made  a  point, 

And  got  off  twenty  pages  with  great  skill, 
To  glorify  his  noble  second  joint. 

For  this  the  Czar  in  dismal  frenzy  cried, 

"  He  shall  no  more  write  verses  in  my  lands," 

And  so  the  poet  was  dragged  out  and  tied 
While  the  court  jailer  cut  off  both  his  hands. 

But  he,  tho'  balked,  was  still  by  this  untamed, 
And  finding  multilation  quite  a  bore, 

He  hired  a  man  who  was  not  much  ashamed, 
And  he  dictated  fifty  poems  more. 

Then  the  fierce  Czar  rose  on  his  Royal  Ear, 
And  with  a  Nijni  yell,  a  Moscow  shout, 

Ordered  his  serfs  his  hapless  tongue  to  shear, 
And  had  him  flayed  for  two  weeks  with  a  knout, 
94 


The  Russian  Poet.  95 

The  luckless  wight  then  sought  his  hut's  repose, 
And  there  his  many  wounds  began  to  heal, 

And  soon  he  managed  with  his  agile  toes 
To  write  another  volume  with  great  zeal. 

The  Czar  grew  blue  about  his  princely  gills 
When  this  he  heard,  and  bade  his  doctors  flee 

To  find  the  bard  and  drug  him  with  foul  pills, 
And  carve  his  feet  off  right  above  the  knee. 

Then  the  poor  poet,  weakened  by  such  blows, 
Bought  with  his  kopecks  simply  to  begin, 

Ten  alphabets  of  wooden  blocks  in  rows, 
And  felt  the  upraised  letters  with  his  chin. 

These  he  could  choose  and  make  his  serf  obey, 
And  place  them  nicely  till  the  word  was  clear, 

And,  by  this  sweet  expedient,  every  day 
He  wrote,  say  70,000  lines  a  year. 

And  when  the  awful  Czar  heard  this,  the  shock 
Made  his  Imperial  forehead  anger-black, 

And  so  he  had  him  booted  off  a  dock, 

With  three  brass  cannon  strapped  upon  his  back. 


A  WOMAN'S  CONFESSION. 

I  LOVED  him  for  his  great  poetic  power, 

And  all  the  charming  lines  he  always  wrote. 
Over  his  brilliant  efforts  I  would  gloat, 

And  read  his  sonnets  every  half  an  hour. 

He  sang  of  India,  rich  with  bud  and  bower, 
While  every  day  fresh  graces  I  could  note, 
And  I  had  ticklings  in  my  slender  throat 

When  he  compared  me  to  some  fragrant  flower. 

And  he  was  poor,  for  such  men  always  are, 
While  I,  old,  rich  and  pure,  for  him  forsook 

My  happy  home,  for  he  had  called  me  siren  ! 

Now,  in  his  soul  I  read  a  trifle  far, 

For  half  his  verse  was  cribbed  from  Lalla  Rookh 

And  all  the  rest  was  copied  out  of  Byron. 


96 


A  STRANGE  COURTSHIP. 

THE  girl  I  never  can  forget, 

The  one  I  loved  insanely, 
Was  P.  T.  Barnum's  favorite  pet, 

To  put  the  matter  plainly. 

She  had  two  heads,  and  one  was  blonde, 

Fine  eyes  of  different  sizes, 
With  colors  varying — I  am  fond 

Of  optical  surprises. 

One  head  could  warble  and  rejoice 

In  a  soprano  mellow  ; 
The  other  with  a  basso  voice 

Could  admirably  bellow. 

So  love  immense  came  over  me 
The  first  time  that  I  met  her  ; 

She  was  awake  and  taking  tea, 
And  never  looking  better. 

Dressed  in  a  robe  of  spotless  pink, 

Serenely  she  was  sitting  ; 
Four  hands  were  chucking  dice,  I  think, 

The  other  two  were  knitting. 
97 


98        A  Strange  Courtship. 

And  when  I  murmured  in  her  ears 

The  love  I  felt  immensely, 
The  head  with  three  eyes  shed  some  tears- 

The  other  blushed  intensely. 

She  knew  that  I  possessed  broad  lands, 
That  I  for  marriage  panted, 

So  when  I  asked  her  for  her  hands 
They  readily  were  granted. 

And  at  her  home  each  night  I  'd  call, 
And,  by  my  love  grown  bolder, 

She  sometimes  let  one  blonde  head  fall 
Serenely  on  my  shoulder. 

And  oh  !  'twas  most  ecstatic  bliss 
To  have  six  arms  caress  me  ! 

And  when  I  stooped  two  mouths  to  kiss 
Have  thirty  fingers  press  me  ! 

And  grand  to  have  three  eyes  sublime 
Shine  on  me,  kind  and  pleading, 

While  the  remainder  at  the  time 
Were  occupied  in  reading. 

And  oh  !  'twas  sweet  to  listen  mute 
In  glorious  summer  weather, 

And  hear  her  play  the  harp,  the  flute, 
And  piano  all  together. 

Alas  !  too  brief  was  my  bright  dream  ; 
She  caused  my  tears  to  trickle  ; 


A  Strange  Courtship.        99 

I  learned  too  late,  in  grief  extreme, 
That  both  her  hearts  were  fickle. 

For  when  she  'd  squandered  all  my  wealth, 

And  made  me  meek  and  pliant, 
She  left  the  town  one  night  by  stealth 

With  Barnum's  Chinese  giant. 


THE  PIANIST  WHO  HAD  RECEIVED  HALF  A 
LESSON  FROM  LISZT. 

FROM  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  he  came, 

He  had  been  finely  puffed  ; 
And  sixteen  masters  did  proclaim 

That  he  with  chic  was  stuffed. 

His  name  was  hailed  as  great  and  grand, 

Among  his  German  hills  ; 
And  so  he  wandered  to  this  land, 

To  take  the  shine  from  Mills. 

His  debut  I  remember  well, 

The  house  was  densely  packed, 

And  half  the  city,  strange  to  tell, 
About  Herr  X was  cracked. 


Upon  the  stage,  most  debonnair, 

He  bounded  like  a  yak, 
With  twenty  pounds  of  yellow  hair 

Cavorting  down  his  back. 

He  wore  blue  glasses,  and  his  head 

Of  charm  was  destitute  ; 
While  on  his  frame,  that  looked  ill  fed, 

There  hung  a  rusty  suit. 


The  Pianist.  101 

Forthwith  the  piano  stool  he  seized, 

With  many  jerks  and  shoves, 
And  having  coughed,  and  having  sneezed, 

Tore  off  his  purple  gloves. 

He  played  a  Scandinavian  waltz, 

One  he  had  learned  by  rote  ; 
Then  a  nocturne  (with  three  bars  false), 

And  then  he  broke  a  note. 

The  people  cheered,  and  he  arose 

And  rolled  upon  the  floor  ; 
And  then  played  four  adagios, 

And  smashed  a  few  notes  more. 

Red  in  the  face,  he  still  went  on  ; 

The  pedal  sprained  his  leg  ; 
But  he  performed  some  Mendelssohn, 

And  then  he  dodged  an  egg  ! 

The  air  was  full  of  doleful  sound, 

The  hall  with  oaths  was  thick, 
But  he  continued  still  to  pound, 

And  baffled  every  brick  ! 

That  he  was  wondrous  in  his  way, 

The  audience  could  not  doubt, 
But  wonders  sometimes  cease  to  pay, 

And  so  they  kicked  him  out. 


HUMBUG   THE   GOOD. 

THEY  told  me  that  he  lived  alone, 
In  some  foul  cave  deep  in  the  wood. 

They  told  me  sin  he  ne'er  had  known. 

They  said  he  was  surnamed  "  The  Good." 

They  told  me  his  career  of  pain  ; 

His  charity  to  birds  and  brutes. 
They  told  me  how  he  slaked  with  rain 

His  thirst,  and  how  he  fed  on  roots. 

I  learned  that  he  for  many  years 
Had  never  left  his  dreary  hole  ; 

He  passed  his  nights  in  prayers  and  tears, 
This  Christian  man,  this  pious  soul  ! 

And  so  I  wondrous  pity  felt, 

And  went  with  feelings  of  great  awe 

Unto  the  cave  where  this  saint  dwelt, 
And  he  was  out ;  but  this  I  saw  : 

A  warm,  snug,  neat  and  cosey  den  ; 

A  chicken  frying  on  a  pan  ; 
Some  whisky  bottles  (eight  or  ten), 

Belonging  to  this  holy  man. 


Humbug  the  Good.  103 

A  banjo  in  one  corner  stood  ; 

Cheap  novels  lay  upon  a  chair  ; 
With  these  the  man  all  called  "  The  Good  " 

Passed  the  sad,  tedious  hours  in  prayer. 

This  cenobite  that  combats  vice 

Hath  morals,  thought  I,  rather  slack  ; 

His  beads  look  very  much  like  dice, 
His  hymn-book  is  a  euchre  pack. 

I  met  him  as  I  went  away. 

His  axe  seemed  sharp,  his  muscle  strong. 
My  oroide  studs,  I  grieve  to  say, 

Now  to  that  holy  man  belong. 


MY  MERMAID  MATE. 

I  FOUND  her  one  night  in  an  awful  storm, 

A  few  miles  beyond  Nantucket, 
She  'd  been  struck  by  a  spar,  but  still  was  warm, 

And  her  head  was  in  a  bucket. 

She  was  even  whiter  than  chalky  milk, 

But  was  not  well  off  for  dresses, 
Her  skin  was  as  soft  as  the  softest  silk, 

And  eel  grass  tangled  her  tresses. 

No  trace  could  I  see  of  a  tail  or  fin, 
True  nymph  was  she  and  charming, 

With  a  crafty  look,  like  a  dolphin's  grin, 
Which  at  times  seemed  quite  alarming. 

I  made  up  my  mind  when  I  brought  her  home, 

To  do  all  I  could  to  tame  her, 
For  a  time  she  seemed  to  regret  the  foam, 

But  nobody  came  to  claim  her. 

I  stopped  her  from  gorging  on  uncooked  fish, 

And  practising  all  natation, 
For  this  did  not  happen  to  suit  my  wish 

In  the  way  of  education. 
104 


My  Mermaid  Mate.         105 

For  months  she  remained  in  my  home  austere, 

And  slept  on  my  gorgeous  Brussels, 
Sipping  shad-roe  soup  with  a  walrus  leer, 

And  chewing  tough  clams  and  mussels. 

'T  was  after  the  end  of  the  second  year 

This  mermaid  with  me  had  tarried, 
I  whispered  my  love  in  her  shell-like  ear, 

And  we  instantly  got  married. 

She  was  watched,  of  course,  with  a  love  sincere, 

And  a  husbandly  devotion, 
And  was  never  allowed  to  loiter  near 

The  blue  and  perfidious  ocean  ! 

But  in  spite  of  this  she  slipped  off  one  day, 

With  a  peal  of  taunting  laughter, 
And  rushed  like  a  rocket  down  to  the  quay, 

While  I  went  skurrying  after  ! 

She  dove  and  swam  off  in  an  awful  gale, 

Leaving  me  lorn  and  frantic, 
And  eloped  with  the  most  colossal  whale 

That  lives  in  the  North  Atlantic  ! 


THE  LAY  OF  A  DAHOMEY  LOVER. 


OH,  love  !  for  thy  sake  and  to  win  thy  love, 

Oh,  beautiful  Naviloo  ! 
I  would  face  the  lion  with  famished  whelps, 

And  the  gray  hyena  too. 

With  my  boomerang  I  would  sally  forth 

Had  I  right  for  thee  to  woo, 
And  I  'd  fight  all  night  with  the  two-horned  yak, 

And  defy  the  three-horned  gnu. 

I  would  give  you  plumes  from  the  emu's  neck, 

And  blood  from  the  kililoo, 
And  the  savage  beasts  that  howl  in  woods 

I  would  slay  and  bring  to  you. 

I  would  steal  to  hang  on  your  lovely  nose 

A  ring  made  of  gold,  brand  new, 
And  a  necklace  I  'd  give  of  leopard's  claws, 

With  teeth  from  the  old  yahoo. 

For  a  kiss  I  would  brave  gorillas  fierce, 

I  would  ne'er  for  mercy  sue  ; 
I  would  steal  the  fur  from  the  pollychunk, 

And  plumes  from  the  cockatoo. 
106 


The  Lay  of  a  Dahomey  Lover.  107 

To  give  you  a  thrill  of  joy,  I  'd  slay 

Of  my  poor  relations  a  few  ; 
I  would  put  to  death  all  my  maiden  aunts, 

And  my  maiden  uncles  too. 

Oh,  why  do  you  spurn  my  manly  charms  ? 

My  form  is  one  grand  tattoo  ; 
My  teeth,  as  you  know,  are  tinted  red, 

And  my  nose  is  painted  blue. 

If  you  leave  me  to  smile  on  other  men, 

Oh,  treacherous  Naviloo, 
I  will  drink  half  a  quart  of  English  rum, 

And  then  you  know  what  I  '11  do. 

Without  bow  or  arrows  or  boomerang, 

Without  any  more  ado, 
I  '11  go  to  the  forest  and  be  devoured 

By  the  fierce  red  wakkaloo. 

And  if  in  my  roamings  I  meet  him  not, 

I  will  cross  the  far  seas  blue, 
And  will  die  in  the  gaunt  and  hairy  arms 

Of  the  wild  kerchunkertchoo. 


THE  REVERIE  OF  A  CRAZY  FARMER. 

I  LOVE  to  hear  the  neighing  of  my  hens, 
At  early  morn  when  smoking  at  my  ease  ; 

And  I  adore  the  roaring  of  my  wrens 

Haunting  the  boughs  of  my  ailanthus  trees. 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  cackling  of  my  cats, 
As  o'er  the  roof  they  indolently  pass, 

And  I  revere  the  purring  of  the  bats 
Attracted  by  the  radiance  of  the  gas. 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  buzzing  of  the  goats 
And  the  shrill  clucking  of  my  favorite  mare, 

While  all  my  doves  and  linnets  in  their  cotes 
Fill  with  loud  trumpet-snorts  the  evening  air. 

I  dote  upon  the  screaming  of  my  sheep, 
And  the  fierce  hissing  of  my  English  pups, 

And  all  the  fibres  in  my  body  leap 

When  my  old  jackass  whistles  as  he  sups. 

My  spirit  loves  the  braying  of  the  owls  ; 

I  jump  with  joy  when  my  pet  stallion  bleats, 
And  in  the  night  my  old  canary's  howls 

Fill  me  and  thrill  me  with  seraphic  sweets. 
108 


Reverie  of  a  Crazy  Farmer.    109 

Nothing  is  nicer  than  my  croaking  cocks, 
And  I  can  soar  in  heavenly  realms  beyond 

When  all  my  mules  chirp  gaily  on  the  rocks, 
Answered  by  bull-frogs  snarling  in  the  pond. 

Yes,  it  is  sweet  to  listen  to  my  cows 

Growling  at  sundown  on  the  pastures  dark, 

And  with  beatitude  upon  my  brows, 

To  hear  my  fattest  hog's  loud,  honest  bark. 

Such  sounds  have  made  me  happy  among  men, 
My  frame  in  healthy  vigor  thus  I  keep. 

And  so  I  go  to  bed  at  half-past  ten 

And  softly  neigh  my  perfect  brain  to  sleep. 


DUTCH  RAILROADS. 

FOR  Amsterdam  I  started  from  The  Hague, 
The  famous  windmills  on  the  route  to  see, 

And  with  some  notions,  partly  very  vague, 
To  take  a  dive  into  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

The  cars  were  full  of  fat,  phlegmatic  men, 
Whose  faces  naught  of  humor  did  reveal, 

And  while  we  waited,  every  now  and  then, 
A  spavined  engine  gave  a  sickly  squeal. 

Lord  of  my  time,  I  did  not  marvel  much, 
Knowing  the  train  was  the  3:8  express, 

And  so  I  studied  my  companions'  Dutch, 
Smoking  in  all  their  stolid  loveliness. 

The  cars  moved  on,  but  soon  came  to  a  stop, 
And  while  I  wondered,  gazing  at  the  trees, 

I  was  informed  a  man  had  chanced  to  drop 
A  sausage  sandwich  and  a  pound  of  cheese. 

He  found  them,  and  the  train  went  on  again, 
At  the  sweet  rate  of  half  a  mile  an  hour, 

And  people  near  me  marvelled  with  the  brain, 
And  spoke  of  steam  and  its  terrific  power, 
no 


Dutch  Railroads.  m 

But,  ah  !  another  pause  just  then  occurred, 
While  I  said  things  not  fit  to  put  in  type, 

For  they  had  really  stopped,  upon  my  word, 
To  let  the  Burgomeister  light  his  pipe. 

We  made  three  miles  before  the  next  day's  dawn, 
And  then  they  stopped  again,  I  don't  know  how, 

To  let  a  peasant  step  down  on  the  lawn, 
And  barter  for  a  frowsy-looking  cow. 

He  got  her  for  a  dozen  sacks  of  malt, 

Being  the  brother  of  the  engineer  ; 
And  two  yards  farther  on  we  made  a  halt, 

To  treat  that  gentleman  to  lager  bier. 

Then  we  went  back  at  least  a  half  a  mile, 
To  get  a  farmer  who  had  missed  the  train. 

And  after  fiddling  all  around  awhile, 

The  passengers  got  out  for  schnapps  again. 

Then  we  rolled  on  until  the  day  was  o'er  ; 

A  smoking  lamp  was  given  us  for  light, 
And  this  gay  train,  just  as  it  did  before, 

Stopped  once  again,  but  this  time  for  the  night. 

And  thus  things  happened,  day  out  and  day  in, 
For  many  mortal  and  most  tedious  weeks, 

We  lived  on  herring,  cheese,  and  Holland  gin, 
And  slept  in  spite  of  the  old  engine's  shrieks. 

But,  thank  the  kindly  gods,  this  was  the  worst, 
We  trudged  on  nicely  thus  for  many  a  day, 

We  left  The  Hague  on  July  3ist, 

And  reached  old  Amsterdam  the  4th  of  May. 


EVOLUTION  IN  ANATOMY. 

You  are  more  quaintly  made,  Elaine, 

Than  any  girl  I  know  ; 
You  have  your  stomach  in  your  brain, 

Your  liver  in  your  toe. 

Your  heart  doth  never  palpitate, 
Like  low  folks',  on  the  left, 

But  on  the  right  it  throbs  in  state, 
Of  verticles  bereft. 

The  long  black  hair  I  fondly  prize 
Grows  from  your  beauteous  spine, 

And  from  the  elbow  both  your  eyes 
In  soft  effulgence  shine. 

Out  of  your  swanlike  neck  extend 
Your  long,  well-fashioned  arms, 

And  by  their  graceful  swinging  lend 
Additions  to  your  charms. 

Your  fingers,  which  I  madly  praise, 
Such  things  as  knuckles  lack  ; 

And  you  can  lie  in  sixteen  ways, 
Yet  never  on  your  back. 


Evolution  in  Anatomy.      113 

Your  nose  from  out  your  ankle  peers, 

Where  surely  it  should  be, 
And  when  affliction  draws  your  tears 

The  flood  comes  from  your  knee. 

Unlike  all  girls  in  every  part 

You  are  from  tip  to  toe  ; 
It  took  me  time  to  find  your  heart — 

That 's  why  I  love  you  so  ! 


SCARED  BY  THE  SCRIBBLERS. 

FROM  Liverpool  last  week  I  came, 
Assured  my  trip  would  merry  be  ; 

The  Celtic  brought  me  o'er  the  waves, 
This  great  and  curious  land  to  see. 

Arriving  safely  on  Broadway, 

I  put  up  at  the  best  hotel, 
And  though  they  robbed  me  on  the  wharf, 

I  liked  the  country  very  well. 

So,  to  be  posted  in  all  things, 
The  papers  of  the  day  I  bought, 

To  cultivate  a  proper  taste, 

And  be  in  foreign  manners  taught. 

On  the  first  page  that  I  perused 

I  learned,  with  wonderment  and  pain, 

That  fourteen  men  the  previous  night 
By  knives  and  pistols  had  been  slain. 

Shudd'ring,  I  read  still  farther  down, 
And  saw,  to  my  intense  disgust, 

That  sixteen  old-established  banks 
Since  I  arrived  in  town  had  bust. 
114 


Scared  by  the  Scribblers.     *  1 5 

Also,  that  eighty  lives  were  lost 

Upon  a  Massachusetts  train, 
And  that  two  hundred  men  were  shot 

In  Jersey,  Delaware,  and  Maine. 

And  then  there  was  a  long  account 

About  twelve  maidens,  young  and  fair, 

Found  hanging  to  twelve  chestnut  trees 
That  gauntly  grew  in  Union  Square. 

"  The  Morgue  is  full,"  the  papers  said  ; 

And  then  I  read,  in  blank  dismay, 
That  twenty  aged  prisoners 

Were  to  be  hanged  that  very  day. 

And  on  the  telegraphic  page — 

Record  of  ghastly  deaths  and  dooms — 

'T  was  stated  that  a  ghoul  had  dug 
A  hundred  people  from  their  tombs. 

Pallid  and  shiv'ring  in  each  limb, 

I  rushed  into  my  room  to  pack, 
And,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did, 

I  took  the  steamship  Celtic  back. 


A  LETTER-CARRIER'S  LAMENT. 

THROUGH  the  great  city,  night  and  day, 
In  weather  frigid,  damp,  or  warm, 

I  roam  in  one  unvaried  way, 
A  Wandering  Jew  in  uniform. 

No  passers  by  e'er  pity  find 

For  me,  aristocrat  of  tramps, 
And  no  one  dreams  that  my  poor  mind 

Can  think  of  aught  but  postage  stamps. 

And  yet  that  mind  is  wise  and  strong, 

Containing  information  rare, 
To  speak  of  which  would  take  too  long, 

And  if  I  did,  no  one  would  care. 

Now  I  must  every  day  give  forth 
Two  thousand  letters,  let  me  say, 

From  East  to  West,  from  South  to  North, 
At  various  houses  on  my  way. 

But  I  am  really  forced  to  grieve  ; 

I  know  not  why  such  things  can  be, 
For  no  fond  note  do  I  receive, 

Nobody  ever  writes  to  me. 
116 


A  Letter-Carriers  Lament, 

And  oh,  the  sarcasm  of  my  fate  ! 

I,  who  a  beauteous  maiden  love, 
A  girl  whose  eyes  are  dark  and  great, 

A  creature  purer  than  a  dove, 

Receive  no  letter  by  her  signed  ; 

And  yet  from  6  A.M.  till  late, 
I,  with  vague  yearnings  undefined, 

Distribute  mails  and  weekly  wait. 

And  she  has  said  she  loved  me  well, 
That  I  was  her  whole  soul's  delight. 

Perhaps  she  don't  know  how  to  spell, 
Or,  much  more  likely,  cannot  write. 

Alas,  alas,  could  I  obtain 

One  blotless  line,  there  would  be  hope 
She  writeth  not  ; — I  wait  in  vain, 

Perhaps  she  has  no  envelope  ! 

So  I,  who  think  such  fortune  strange, 
Will  put  Fate  calmly  on  the  shelf, 

And  for  a  most  desirous  change 
Will  post  a  letter  to  my  myself. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  LIBRARY  CLERK. 

EACH  day,  with  locks  well  oiled,  I  stand, 

A  literary  Mentor, 
And  greet  with  smiles  serene  and  bland 

Our  patrons  as  they  enter. 

'T  is  not  alone  to  give  a  book 

To  any  who  demand  it  ; 
But  't  is  the  manner,  and  the  look, 

And  the  sweet  way  I  hand  it. 

And  then  it  is  a  well-known  fact, 

When  making  a  selection, 
I  show  a  most  discerning  tact 

And  judgment  in  perfection. 

So,  when  old  fogies  come  to  get 

Of  novel  new  the  lightest, 
I  hand  them  over  Not  Dead  Yet, 

And  calmly  smile  my  brightest ; 

Or  vaguely  hint  of  Dead  Men's  Shoes, 

And  if  they  prove  not  docile, 
I  give  them,  for  their  instant  use, 

Some  treatise  on  a  fossil  ! 
118 


Confession  of  a  Library  Clerk.   119 

And  should  my  tailor  to  me  bend 
And  say,  "  You  are  my  debtor," 

I  hand  him  To  the  Bitter  End, 
To  make  his  nature  better. 

When  a  rich  girl  comes  in  all  bent 

A  passion  strong  to  foster 
For  some  young  man  without  a  cent, 

I  hand  her  What  He  Cost  Her. 

And  to  all  crusty,  mean  old  men, 

Who  say  they  '11  marry  never, 
I  offer,  while  I  twirl  my  pen, 

The  book,  Deceivers  Ever. 

My  mind,  to  make  a  joke  a  shade 

More  witty,  has  ne'er  tarried, 
For  when  I  see  a  gaunt  old  maid 

I  give  her  Safely  Married. 

And  it  has  always  been  my  forte 
To  hand  out,  without  shrinking, 

A  copy  new  of  Wrecked  in  Port 
To  old  men  fond  of  drinking. 

Played  Out  I  give  to  those  whose  store 

Of  gold  is  lost  at  euchre, 
And  Birds  of  Prey  I  lay  before 

Fat  brokers  gorged  with  lucre. 

And  thus  the  happy  days  go  by, 
While  I  strain  brains  and  fibres 

To  please  the  world  and  satisfy 
Our  numerous  subscribers. 


ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  A  CYCLOPS. 

I  AM  superior  to  most  men  I  think, 

Having  been  blessed  in  most  peculiar  ways, 

For  when  I  choose  my  lonely  eye  to  wink 
People  shrink  back  in  terror  from  my  gaze. 

And  should  I  be  the  vanquished  in  a  fight, 

In  spite  of  heroism  half  sublime, 
I  know  that  I,  in  my  severest  plight, 

Can  only  have  one  black  eye  at  a  time. 

My  eye-glass  bill  is  naturally  small, 
And  I  can  see,  with  superhuman  ease, 

Thro'  any  telescope  worth  handling,  all 
Of  highest  Heaven's  prodigious  mysteries. 

'T  is  easier  far  for  me  to  go  to  sleep 

Than  it  would  be  for  men  who  have  two  eyes, 

And  my  imperious  glance  makes  goose-flesh  creep 
On  any  one  I  choose  to  magnetize. 

'T  is  true  I  'm  troubled  when  a  rebel  tear 
Forms  in  my  eye,  moist  harbinger  of  woes, 

For  then  in  briny  haste  to  disappear, 

It  trickles  slowly  down  my  Roman  nose. 
1 20 


Advantages  of  Being  a  Cyclops.  121 

But  then  it  serves  me  in  another  way, 
Just  as  an  optic  of  that  species  should, 

Because  in  politics  I  gain  each  day, 

Having  but  one  eye  for  the  public  good. 

When  to  my  lovely  bride  I  whisper  low  : 
"  Thou  art  the  very  apple  of  my  eye," 

I  speak  the  truth,  while  others  saying  so 
Are,  strictly  speaking,  rather  prone  to  lie. 

And  when  in  death  I  close  that  eye  inspired, 
At  last  of  every  guile  terrestrial  rid, 

Only  one  copper  cent  will  be  required 
To  gently  rest  upon  its  fluttering  lid  ! 


HUNTING   IN  SOUTH  AFRICA. 


I  STARTED  like  Cummings  one  beautiful  day, 
To  hunt  lions  and  things  at  the  Cape  ; 

And  ere  leaving  England  I  carried  away 
Material  of  every  known  shape. 


II. 


I  had  rifles  and  shot,  I  had  powder  and  balls, 

To  last  for  six  natural  lives. 
I  had  pincushions,  blankets,  and  green  overalls, 

A  velocipede,  sandals,  and  knives. 


in. 


Twelve  compasses,  ink,  and  a  Japanese  flute, 

A  puncheon  of  gin  and  a  belt ; 
Ten  ramrods,  nine  daggers,  a  full  bathing  suit, 

And  two  dozen  sombreros  of  felt. 


IV. 


A  medicine  chest  quite  chock-full  of  vile  drugs, 
Some  volumes  of  poems,  (my  own,) 

A  dozen  of  yak-colored  cottony  rugs, 
And  a  Jews'-harp  to  play  when  alone. 


Hunting  in  South  Africa.  123 


V. 


A  cannon  I  bought,  which  belonged  to  Charles  First, 

A  barrel  or  two  of  brown  soap, 
Ten  bottles  of  Kirschwasser  solely  for  thirst, 

And  a  mile  and  a  half  of  new  rope. 


VI. 


With  these  was  a  set  all  complete  of  the  Times, 
And  a  lot  of  quaint  books  in  a  truck, 

Some  music,  containing  the  Normandy  Chimes 
And  a  Testament  just  for  pure  luck. 


VII. 


Torpedoes  and  dynamite  also  I  had, 
Some  tracts,  and  a  case  of  blue  beads, 

A  box  of  Regalias  to  puff  at  when  sad, 
And  a  map  of  the  city  of  Leeds  ! 


VIII. 


I  also  took  pickles  and  bottled  rum-slings, 
Some  sassafras,  matches,  and  mint, 

And  I  think  'mid  a  lot  of  variety  things, 
There  were  bug-powder,  onions,  and  lint. 


IX. 


So  I  hunted  the  bounding  and  petulant  yak, 
The  emus,  the  wildebeests,  and  gnus, 

Till  I  had  n't  a  stitch  to  my  suffering  back, 
Nor  a  sole  to  my  waterproof  shoes. 


124    Hunting  in  South  Africa. 


X. 


I  was  kicked  by  the  frantic  and  winsome  giraffe, 

Whenever  that  monster  I  met  ; 
And  the  quaggas  would  laugh  a  most  insolent  laugh, 

When  they  knew  that  my  powder  was  wet. 


XI. 


The  rhinoceros  scorned  me  in  weird  kinds  of  ways, 

The  wombats  eloped  when  I  fired  ; 
And  the  hunting  of  elands,  those  wonderful  days, 

Did  not  go  as  my  spirit  desired. 


XII. 


The  ostriches  fell  not  in  gangs  by  my  shots, 
The  sacred  bulls  fled  by  the  score, 

And  many  a  time  I  slew  poor  Hottentots 
When  I  aimed  at  the  mighty  casoar  ! 


XIII. 


The  emus  and  kililoos  always  cleared  out, 
Before  a  good  spot  I  could  see  ; 

And  my  bullets  at  present  are  found  in  about 
Every  second  South  African  tree  ! 


XIV. 


So  for  years  I  remained,  unrelieved,  undisturbed, 

In  that  dangerous  country  unblest  ; 
With  my  will  just  as  strong  and  my  ardor  uncurbed, 

But  all  that  I  caught  was  the  pest  ! 


A  TEMPERANCE  LECTURER. 

"  OH,  gentle  youths,  who  'round  me  throng, 
The  promise  of  this  country  rare, 

Listen  with  fervor  to  my  song — 
Of  burning  alcohol  beware  ! 

"  Taste  not  the  poisoned  wines  of  France, 
Touch  not  the  heating  brands  of  Spain, 

They  keep  your  senses  in  a  trance, 
They  steal  away  your  mighty  brain. 

"  Shun  as  a  plague  old  Holland  gin, 
With  rum  West  Indian  never  wet 

Your  beardless  lips,  and  "t  is  a  sin 
To  drink  the  sticky  Anisette. 

"  The  yellow  Chartreuse  of  the  monks 
Is  known  the  limbs  to  paralyze, 

Leading  to  fierce  Homeric  drunks, 
Well  battered  fronts  and  sable  eyes. 

"  Hurl  to  the  ground  the  warm  Lafite, 
Avoid  pale  Kiimmel  on  a  spree, 

And  even  Sherry,  gold  and  sweet, 
Will  lead  you  onward  to  D.  T. 

125 


i26     A  Temperance  Lecture. 

"  When  Rudesheimer  in  the  cup, 

Sparkles  like  iridescent  gold, 
Be  sure  and  never  drink  it  up, 

And  save  your  body  woes  untold. 

"  And  oh  !  sweet  friends  of  early  morn, 
Spurn  the  malignant  cocktail's  charm, 

Hold  brandy-smashes  in  high  scorn, 
Let  fizzes  bring  your  soul  alarm. 

"  Drink  soda  and  the  seltzer  pure, 

Apollinaris,  Vichy  bland, 
And  you  will  evermore  endure 

An  honor  to  your  native  land." 

(Poem  continued  by  Lecturer  s  Assistant?) 
Friends,  I  regret  upon  this  day  of  merriment  to  cast  a 

gloom, 
But  the  Professor,  sad  to  say,  has  jimjams  in  the  other 

room. 


THE  INVALID. 

HE  had  a  number-one  catarrh, 
The  fidgets,  and  the  spleen  ; 

His  back  was  one  preposterous  scar, 
Anoint  with  glycerine. 

Dyspepsia  claimed  him  as  its  own, 
He  likewise  had  the  croup  ; 

Dropsy  he  frequently  had  known, 
Also  rheumatic  stoop. 

Tubercles  gambolled  in  one  lung, 

His  liver  was  decayed  ; 
Pimples  inhabited  his  tongue, 

The  largest  ever  made  ! 

Asthma  possessed  his  writhing  neck, 

And  torturing  disease 
Made  of  his  spine  an  odious  wreck 

And  bullied  both  his  knees. 

St.  Vitus  on  his  forehead  danced, 

He  took  three  fits  a  week, 
While  champion  tumors  wildly  pranced 

Around  his  withered  cheek. 
127 


1 2  8  The  Invalid. 

When  free  from  these  entrancing  pains 
(The  symptoms  here  were  vague), 

He  'd  have  a  swelling  of  the  veins, 
Accompanied  by  plague. 

Both  ears  were  deaf  and  one  eye  blind, 
And  boils  had  marred  his  trunk, 

And  when  by  whooping-cough  confined 
He  usually  was  drunk. 

And  yet  this  hapless,  luckless  wretch 
Would  pass  his  time  away, 

Striving  from  out  his  mind  to  fetch 
"  The  model  modern  play  !  " 


A  WRECK. 

'T  is  true,  my  dear,  that  I  have  lost 
One  of  my  beauteous  eyes  ; 

But  then  the  other,  spared  by  frost, 
You  still  can  fondly  prize. 

Fate  willed  that  I  should  be  bereft 
Of  my  grand  Roman  nose  ; 

But  what  of  its  red  bulk  is  left 
Is  fine  as  beauty  goes. 

An  Afric  plague  annexed  my  hair, 
And  I  lost  both  my  ears 

While  rambling  in  a  tiger's  lair 
In  Oriental  spheres. 

A  prize-fight  settled  all  my  teeth, 
But  still  my  face  is  sound. 

As  for  my  arms,  they  lie  beneath 
The  pitiless,  cold  ground  ! 

My  legs,  cut  off  right  near  the  hip, 
Now  fertilize  Bull  Run  ; 

I  likewise  lost  my  cheek  and  lip 
While  fooling  with  a  gun. 
129 


130  A  Wreck. 

My  memory  is  gone,  't  is  said, 
If  truth  must  still  be  told, 

And  all  the  character  I  had 

Went  with  my  health  and  gold  ! 

But,  spite  of  fate,  I  say  in  glee 
No  power  my  heart  can  chill  ; 

And  with  all  now  that  's  left  of  me, 
Darling,  I  love  thee  still  ! 


THE  BOTANIST. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  in  the  wood, 
To  all  the  wide  world  callous, 

And  contemplate  in  joyous  mood 
The  blue  Elyptophallus. 

'T  is  sweet  to  lie  upon  the  back 
And  study  the  Ailanthus, 

Or  count  the  prickly  petals  black 
Of  the  Psychallixanthus. 

I  love  to  see  the  calyx  blue 
Of  the  sweet  Polchrymoris, 

And  the  delighful  crimson  hue 
Of  April's  Syncathoris. 

Naught  gives  my  spirit  such  delight 
As  the  green  Follyintha, 

And  the  suave  odors  in  the  night 
Of  the  serene  Stampintha. 

I  also  love  to  see  the  birds 

Dash  round  the  Cardilymphus, 

And  watch  the  peaceful  lazy  herds 
Feast  on  the  pink  Arrhymphus. 


132  Tke  Botanist. 

For  hours  in  ecstasy  I  gaze 
Upon  the  Flavius  Crona, 

And  pass  uninterrupted  days 
Smelling  the  Xantiphrona. 

And  oft,  to  pass  the  time  away, 
Amid  the  Halmagnolia, 

I  write  a  rondel  or  a  lay 
To  the  white  Psychicholia  ! 

But,  as  I  drink  in  my  repose 
Among  the  Eucalypti, 

I  oft  mistake  a  simple  rose 
For  the  green  Tyringypti. 

And  then,  alas,  I  fail  to  see 
The  beauty  of  the  closes, 

The  splendors  of  the  Othus  tree, 
Or  the  sweet  Lectrophosis. 


A  BLUE-STOCKING. 

SOME  years  ago  I  madly  loved 

A  maiden  scientific, 
Whose  knowledge  about  everything, 

Was  perfectly  terrific  ! 

She  writes  to-day  for  magazines, 
Essays,  and  verse,  and  stories  ; 

And  in  all  kinds  of  abstruse  themes, 
She  positively  glories  ! 

Her  mind  of  long  forgotten  lore, 

Is  an  unique  condenser  ; 
She  knows  by  heart  John  Stuart  Mill, 

And  likewise  Herbert  Spencer  ! 

Before  her  comprehensive  brain, 

All  difficulties  vanish, 
She  's  mastered  Hebrew,  Chinese,  Greek, 

And  French,  of  course — and  Spanish  ! 

In  Latin  she  composes  hymns, 
And  five-act  plays  in  German  ! 

While  she  in  Zend  or  Portuguese, 
Could  surely  write  a  sermon  ! 
133 


134  A  Blue-Stocking. 

But  when  I  spoke  of  love  to  her 

In  accents  chaste,  poetic, 
She  'd  chat  for  hours  to  prove  that  love 

Was  hate  turned  sympathetic  ! 

And  show  by  legends,  myths,  or  dates, 
And  curious  Hindoo  omens, 

That  such  unintellectual  trash 
Was  unknown  to  the  Romans  ! 

I  thought  the  only  way  to  please 

Her  most  aesthetic  optic, 
Was  quietly  to  go  to  work, 

And  master  ancient  Coptic  ! 

And  this  I  did,  and  further  wrote 
A  mammoth  life  of  Moses, 

Also  three  volumes  in  blank  verse 
About  metempsychosis  ! 

It  took  me  many  years,  and  when 

I  went  unto  her  dwelling, 
I  found — she  'd  run  off  with  a  man 

Who  made  mistakes  in  spelling  ! 


THE  POET'S  CURIOSITIES. 

I  CALLED  on  a  poet  not  long  ago, 

A  poet  of  wondrous  fame, 
Who  had  souvenirs  of  all  kinds  to  show 

To  his  friends  whene'er  they  came. 

He  received  me  well,  and  brought  forth  a  chair, 

And  bade  me  therein  to  sit  ; 
And  added  :  "  My  friend,  't  is  a  relic  rare, 

For  it  once  belonged  to  Pitt. 

"  It  is  stuffed  with  the  bones  of  Clarence,  too, 
When  he  quenched  his  Malmsey  thirst ; 

And  the  mat  with  fringe  that  is  under  you, 
Is  the  skin  of  Charles  the  First  ! 

"The  things  that  you  see  on  the  table  there 

Are  beyond  all  price  and  fee  ; 
The  cloth  has  been  woven  from  Dante's  hair, 

And  was  given  by  Burns  to  me. 

"  The  bird  that  is  stuffed,  hanging  up  above, 

I  wish  you  would  kindly  mark, 
For  believe  me,  sir,  't  is  the  very  dove 

That  flew  from  Noah's  mighty  Ark  ! 
135 


is6       The  Poet '  s  Curiosities. 

11  The  sword  of  Damocles  I  also  own, 

A  gift  from  an  Indian  king  ; 
And  this  cane  is  Goliath's  real  backbone  ; 

And  there,  too,  is  David's  sling. 

"  That  thing  in  the  bottle  is  Ossian's  heart, 

And  there  is  a  nail  from  Ruth. 
My  cravat  once  belonged  to  Bonaparte, 

And  here  is  Diana's  tooth. 

"  On  the  shelf  above  you  will  please  behold 

Some  wonderful  things  of  note 
The  asp  that  made  poor  Cleopatra  cold, 

Fast  asleep  in  Joseph's  coat ! 

"  If  you  '11  kindly  look  in  my  garden  now, 

There  are  things  I  cannot  pass — 
That  mule  that  is  kicking  my  servant's  brow 

Descended  from  Balaam's  ass  ! 

"  The  hatchet  with  which  she  doth  strike  it  back 

Belonged  to  our  glorious  George  ; 
It  was  found  by  Emerson  down  the  track, 

A  few  miles  from  Valley  Forge." 

"  Could  you  make  a  gift  from  your  priceless  store  ?" 

I  cried  out,  in  anxious  tones  ; 
"  Oh,  give  me  the  ring  that  old  Gyges  wore, 

Or,  at  least,  some  precious  stones  !  " 

Then  the  poet's  forehead  was  wreathed  in  gloom, 

An  oath  from  his  lips  was  heard, 
As  he  kicked  me  out  of  that  wondrous  room, 

With  the  boots  of  George  the  Third. 


THE    TUGBOAT. 


I  'M  forced  to  work  the  live-long  day  ; 

My  owner  is  a  heartless  brute, 
Who  makes  me  tramp  around  the  bay, 

And  sometimes  up  the  Hudson  scoot. 

II. 

I  am  not  of  much  strength  possessed, 
For  I  'm  now  growing  rather  old  ; 

And  yet  he  never  gives  me  rest, 
In  summer's  heat  or  winter's  cold. 

Hi. 

For  many  a  day,  the  folks  I  fear, 
Have  seen  of  my  sad  bulk  enough, 

And  must  be  getting  tired  to  hear 
My  solemn,  melancholy  puff. 

IV. 

Excess  of  work  has  made  me  faint ; 

I  hate  the  waves  I  labor  through, 
And  have  n't  had  a  coat  of  paint 

Since  1842  ! 

i37 


38  The  Tiigboat. 


V. 


My  tears  escape  in  hissing  steam, 
But  no  one  heeds  my  plaintive  cry  ; 

I  wish  that  with  one  awful  scream 
In  some  great  blizzard  I  could  die. 


VI. 


And  oh,  the  sarcasm  of  my  name  ! 

(I  was  George  Washington  baptized  ;) 
But  grief  has  killed  my  love  of  fame, 

And  now  such  things  are  no  more  prized. 


VII. 


A  feeble  wreck  of  bygone  days, 
I  have  to  toil  in  doubts  and  fears, 

And  without  sympathy  or  praise 

Drag  monstrous  steamers  to  their  piers. 


VIII. 


But  this  sad  life  is  too  forlorn, 

Release  in  death  will  come,  I  trust  ; 

And  as  my  boiler  's  old  and  worn, 
I  think  to-night  I  'd  better  bust  ! 


THE  GREAT  BILLIARD  MATCH. 


KARL  SCHWEIZELSTREICHLER  was  his  name, 

Of  billiard  men  the  lion, 
And  from  Kalassendorf  he  came 

To  play  with  Mike  O'Brien. 


ii. 


The  stakes  for  this  immortal  game 
Were  golden  eagles,  twenty  ; 

And  to  lend  vigor  to  their  aim, 
Cool  Budweis  beer  in  plenty. 


in. 

They  banked  for  lead,  and  fortune  fell 

Before  the  skill  Teutonic  ; 
While  in  the  audience  rose  a  yell 

Just  like  the  Philharmonic. 

IV. 

But  then  he  missed  the  opening  shot, 
And  cursed  aloud  in  German  ; 

Removed  his  vest,  for  it  was  hot, 
Showing  a  shirt  not  ermine. 
139 


140  The  Great  Billiard  Match, 


So  Michael  played  his  shot  in  glee, 

With  Irish  banter  florid, 
And  hit  the  beer-soaked  referee 

Severely  in  the  forehead. 

VI. 

A  masse"  shot  he  then  did  make 
Most  wondrous  skill  revealing  ; 

But  the  white  ball  a  curve  did  take, 
And  bounded  to  the  ceiling. 

VII. 

The  chandelier  was  in  the  way, 

And  consequently  perished, 
A  piece  of  furniture  they  say 

The  landlord  highly  cherished. 

VIII. 

For  then  and  there  he  stopped  the  game 

Until  he  got  his  payment, 
And  as  they  did  n't  have  the  same, 

He  seized  upon  their  raiment. 

IX. 

Again  their  talents  they  employed 

With  deep  libations  loaded, 
Until  the  red  ball  (celluloid) 

In  fearful  ways  exploded. 


The  Great  Billiard  Match.  141 


X. 


It  felled  six  bar-beats  to  the  ground 
Like  blows  from  Paddy  Ryan, 

And  into  nothingness  did  pound, 
The  teeth  of  Mike  O'Brien. 


XI. 


Then  Schweizelstreichler  redder  grew  ; 

To  vanquish  he  was  able, 
But  playing  with  a  chalkless  cue 

He  ripped  up  half  the  table. 


XII. 


This  was  too  much,  the  boss  arose, 

Two  wretched  frauds  pronounced  them, 

And  with  a  stinger  on  the  nose 
Incontinently  bounced  them. 


THE   CONFESSION   OF    A    BOARDING-HOUSE 
SERVANT-GIRL. 

THEY  tell  me  I  'm  a  demon  born, 
The  truth  of  this  I  do  not  scorn  ; 
The  fact  is  that  from  night  to  morn 
I  love  to  roam  o'er  hall  and  stair, 
Brewing  sweet  mischief  everywhere, 
And  if  found  out  I  do  not  care, 
For  a  poor  girl,  who  every  day 
Makes  up  ten  rooms  and  sweeps  away 
A  ton  of  dust  becomes  blase, 
And  when  her  tiresome  work  is  done 
Enjoys  her  little  bit  of  fun, 
You  know,  as  well  as  any  one. 

Now  for  confession  !  I  am  led 
By  truth  to  say,  I  never  dread 
At  any  time  to  Scotch  a  bed. 
I  know  the  trick  is  very  old, 
But  ah  !  to  me  't  is  joy  untold, 
On  winter  night  when  fiercely  cold, 
To  know  that  twenty  boarders  curse 
Within  their  rooms,  and  oaths  rehearse 
In  ways  I  dare  not  put  in  verse. 
And  when  a  gentleman  's  from  home, 
142 


A  Servant-Girl.  143 

I  love  among  his  things  to  roam 

And  put  pomatum  in  his  comb  ; 

And  it  my  vagrant  fancy  suits 

To  drop  a  needle  in  his  boots, 

And  pick  out  brush-hair  by  the  roots. 

To  place  fly-paper  in  a  hat, 

Or  tie  in  knots  a  new  cravat, 

Are  joys  that  I  am  aiming  at. 

Time  never,  never  can  destroy 

The  exquisite  and  boundless  joy 

I  feel,  when  some  old  boarder-boy 

Forgets  his  pocket-book,  so  dear, 

Upon  the  table,  for  I  clear 

An  honest  quarter  for  my  beer. 

When  old  Brown  tells  me  o'er  and  o'er, 

"Wake  me  up,  Nell,  at  half-past  four," 

At  seven  I  '11  rap  upon  his  door. 

And  if  Smith  tells  me,  "  Let  me  sleep, 

For  I  am  tired,"  the  noise  I  keep 

Before  his  door  would  make  fiends  weep. 

And  yet  I  am  a  real  nice  girl, 

Smart  from  my  gaiter  to  my  curl, 

And  of  all  chamber-maids  the  pearl, 

Free  from  all  malice,  good  and  kind, 

To  all  my  faults  supremely  blind, 

And  for  a  life  of  wealth  inclined. 

So  some  nice,  jolly  boarder  may, 

Without  my  knowing  it,  some  day 

Quietly  steal  my  heart  away. 


THE  RAILROAD    CONDUCTOR. 


HE  is  all  smiles,  urbane,  polite  ; 

He  's  likewise  handsome,  as  a  rule, 
While  his  sweet  voice  reminds  you  quite 

Of  Campanini  and  Capoul. 

ii. 

His  movements  are  all  full  of  grace, 
He  punches  tickets  like  a  god, 

Benevolence  doth  haunt  his  face, 
There  's  poesy  in  his  slightest  nod. 

III. 

No  pert,  alert  young  French  soubrette, 
No  actor  unctuous  and  sleek, 

Is  known  to  have  surpassed  as  yet 
His  Chesterfieldian  charm  and  chic, 

IV. 

Then  he  's  so  kind  to  lozenge  boys, 

So  courteous  to  ladies  too, 
That  it  would  seem  the  joy  of  joys 

To  be  his  brother,  entre  nous. 
144 


The  Railroad  Conductor.     145 


V. 


I  spoke  to  him,  and  heard  him  speak, 
He  deigned  to  look  at  me  and  smile, 

He  chattered  French,  he  knew  old  Greek, 
And  had  read  Huxley  and  Carlyle. 


VI. 


He  kindly  told  me  all  his  life 
(It  was  a  legend  like  a  bard's), 

He  showed  me  pictures  of  his  wife, 
And  taught  me  six  new  tricks  at  cards. 


VII. 


He  sang  sweet  songs  in  accents  bold, 
From  all  the  operas  I  preferred, 

And  as  we  rattled  on,  he  told 
The  funniest  tales  I  ever  heard. 


VIII. 


But  ah,  just  then  he  chanced  to  spy 
A  tramp  asleep  beneath  a  seat, 

Vesuvius  glittered  in  his  eye, 

He  jumped  upon  the  ragged  beat. 


IX. 


He  punched  his  eye  and  broke  his  nose, 
He  smashed  in  twain  his  collar-bone, 

He  pounded  in  his  spine  with  blows, 
He  made  his  wretched  body  groan. 


146     The  Railroad  Conductor. 


X. 


He  rent  the  left  ear  of  the  lout, 

And  kicked  him  grandly  off  the  train, 

And  yelled  :   "  I  11  eat  your  liver  out 
If  e'er  I  find  you  here  again  !  " 


XI. 


Then  he  came  back  to  me  and  said  : 
"  Excuse  this  row,  t'  will  be  my  last, 

I  think  the  beastly  wretch  is  dead, 

And,  by  the  way,  your  station  's  passed." 


HER    GYMNAST. 

His  muscles  are  like  mighty  bars  of  steel, 
His  limbs  are  supple  as  the  nimble  deer  ; 

Oxen  are  felled  by  one  kick  of  his  heel, 
And  he  can  crack  a  filbert  with  his  ear. 

All  day  upon  the  horizontal  bar 

He  turns  and  twists  with  most  delightful  ease, 
Pausing  at  times  to  smoke  a  strong  cigar, 

Or  drink  some  vivifying  sangarees. 

For  hours  he  stands  upon  his  powerful  head — 
A  feat  that  would  have  made  old  Blondin  wilt- 

And  people  say  that  when  he  goes  to  bed 

He  turns  four  cartwheels  on  his  cotton  quilt. 

No  wonder  !     For  his  skin  by  constant  toil 
Is  thicker  than  the  leather  on  my  trunk  ; 

From  nothing  daring  does  his  soul  recoil, 
Never  to  faltering  has  his  spirit  sunk. 

I  have  been  told  that  once  he  deftly  caught 
A  fierce  rhinoceros,  with  anger  black, 

And  quicker  than  the  lightning  speed  of  thought 

He  hurled  him  panting  on  his  rugged  back. 

i47 


148  Her  Gymnast. 

He  never  stops  to  hail  a  passing  stage, 

But  neatly  springs  up  where  the  driver  sits  ; 

And,  when  he  deigns  to  get  into  a  rage, 
He  tears  old  scrap-iron  into  little  bits. 

That  's  why  I  like  him,  and  the  time  will  come 
When  weak  with  love  before  me  he  will  kneel, 

With  stuttering  passion,  hesitant  and  numb, 
Breathing  his  ardor  forth  with  feverish  zeal. 

And  I  shall  say,  in  accents  chaste  and  bland, 
While  briny  tears  from  both  his  eyes  will  spring 

"  Get  up  and  ask  my  father  for  my  hand, 
You  poor,  weak,  helpless,  miserable  thing  !  " 


TOO    SWEET    FOR    ANYTHING. 


I  'D  stop,  when  I  was  but  a  toddling  child, 
At  every  candy  store,  and  through  the  glass 

Would  gaze,  until  my  infant  soul  grew  wild, 
On  piles  of  taffy  and  red  sassafras  ! 

n. 

Marsh-mallow  always  made  the  water  come 

Unto  my  mouth,  and  every  caramel 
Would  palsy  all  my  limbs,  and  make  me  dumb, 

Intoxicated  by  the  lovely  smell  ! 

in. 

I  sooner  would  have  owned  some  candy  mixed, 
Than  twenty  penny  marbles  or  two  tops  ! 

And  I  remember  how  I  stood  transfixed 

Before  those  godlike  things  called  lemon  drops  ! 

IV. 

Nougat,  molasses,  liquorice,  or  horehound 
Always  would  make  me  most  supremely  glad, 

And  seeing  them,  in  ecstasy  profound, 
I  envied  camels  that  five  stomachs  had  ! 

149 


150    Too  Sweet  for  Anything. 


V. 


As  I  grew  older,  candy  was  my  saint, 

My  love,  religion,  life,  and  second  sense  ; 

Before  a  peanut  angel  I  grew  faint 

I  knew  by  name  the  sugar-Presidents  ! 


VI. 


And  I  can  still  recall  when  quite  a  boy, 

When  my  big  brother  gave  me  sixpence  clean, 

The  happy  hours  of  wild,  delirious  joy, 
Orgies  of  lozenges,  all  wintergreen  ! 


VII. 


Oh,  happy  age  of  twelve,  when,  without  stint, 
I  gorged  as  never  did  Olympian  Jove  ! 

One  endless  bacchanal  of  peppermint  ! 

One  dream  of  cinnamon,  one  heaven  of  clove  ! 


VIII. 


Years  passed,  I  grew  to  be  a  man  forsooth, 
Sole  arbiter  of  my  delightful  life, 

And  though  I  did  not  own  one  healthy  tooth, 
I  tried  to  find  a  candy-loving  wife. 


IX. 


I  found  her,  Heaven  for  me  a  bride  had  made, 
A  sickly  girl,  but  one  of  dainty  taste  ; 

Together  we  began  the  candy  trade, 

With  fruits  besides,  and  nuts,  and  Smyrna  paste. 


Too  Sweet  for  A  ny  thing.    i  5 1 


X. 


And  we  have  thrived  ;  we  make  perhaps  each  day, 
Two  hundred  pounds  of  candy, — all  the  best ; 

And  some  is  sold,  and  some  is  given  away, — 
My  wife  and  I  together  eat  the  rest  ! 


XI. 


We  always  have,  when  we  sit  down  to  dine, 

Nice  liquorice  steaks  with  yellow  jujube  sauce  ; 

And  taffy  cutlets,  cooked  in  honied  wine, 

And  frizzled  fruit-drops  for  the  second  course. 


XII. 


Such  are  the  meals  that  we  most  pleasant  find. 

Sometimes  for  change  we  try  some  foreign  cake  ; 
Our  servants  always  have  the  common  kind, 

Our  numerous  children  have  the  stomach-ache. 


THE  ROYAL  TOUCH. 


THEY  say  that  old  King  Edward  the  Confessor, 
Who  was  beloved  by  his  people  much, 

Could  gently  slide  down  from  his  Saxon  dresser 
And  cure  the  people's  illness  by  his  touch. 

n. 

They  say  that,  easier  than  keeping  treaties, 
He  could  sew  up  old  wounds  with  royal  stitch, 

And  mash  the  devil  out  of  diabetes, 

And  knock  the  holy  jim-jams  out  of  itch. 

in. 

He  it  appears  could  place  his  thumb  nail  nicely 
Upon  some  plastered  wound  or  sore  severe, 

And  twenty  minutes  after  that,  precisely, 
The  patient  would  be  out  and  swilling  beer. 


IV. 


If  he  shook  hands  with  any  passing  loafer 
Who  had  an  erysipelas  of  the  jaw, 

He  'd  get  right  up  and  roll  upon  the  sofa 
And  call  for  drinks  in  reverence  and  awe. 
152 


The  Royal  Touch.  153 


V. 


He  always  cured  the  sick  in  his  menagerie, 
He  saved  from  croup  and  hives  his  Irish  hare, 

And  by  a  little  touching  and  some  badgery 
He  quelled  the  colics  of  his  polar  bear. 


VI. 


The  Queen  one  day  had  gumboils  and  hysterics 
Which  Edward  stopped  in  his  peculiar  way, 

Reciting  lines  and  poemlets  of  Herricks 
And  filling  her  half  full  of  peach  au  lait. 


VII. 


And  also  by  his  healing  fingers  glorious, 
And,  some  historians  certify,  by  look, 

He,  over  Death  eternally  victorious, 

Removed  the  scarlet  jim-jams  from  the  cook. 


VIII. 


And  more  than  that,  he  cured  within  his  dwelling 
A  bell-boy  who  had  scrofula  and  hives 

A  played-out  gizzard  and  a  frontal  swelling, 
And  who  to-day,  historians  tell  us,  thrives! 


IX. 


But  ah  !  what  is  for  such  a  man  so  simple, 
To  do  for  others  will  his  life  not  save. 

For  Eddy  had  an  Exhibition  Pimple 

Which  dragged  his  snowy  fetlocks  to  the  grave. 


NO  EDUCATION. 

I  LIVED  for  twenty-seven  years 
Alone  upon  the  prairies, 

And  stupid  life  in  such  far  spheres 
Hardly,  if  ever,  varies. 

For  twenty  years  of  all  that  time 
I  never  saw  white  faces, 

So  I  cannot  expect  to  climb 
Right  into  modern  graces. 

I  'd  been  there  yet  a-hunting  hide, 
An  honest,  rough  civilian, 

Had  n't  some  old  relation  died 
Leaving  me  half  a  million. 

Fact  was,  I  was  becoming  tired, 
Oldish  and  fever-spotted, 

And  so  to  this  bang-up,  all-fired 
Metropolis  I  Ve  trotted. 

Ye  cougars  !  how  a  fortune  lends 
A  hoist  from  a  low  station  ; 

I  've  got  at  least  2000  friends 
To  help  my  education. 


No  Education.  1 55 

I  study  ten  hours  every  day, 

Geography  and  history, 
Piano,  fencing,  faarte, 

And  many  another  mystery. 

And  I  am  getting  on  so  well, 

I  am  so  bright  and  hearty, 
That  people  say  I  am  a  "  swell " 

And  so  I  '11  give  a  party. 

I  Ve  got  a  band  to  bang  for  me 

(The  height  of  my  ambition), 
And  pictures  painted  (let  me  see) 

By  an  old  cove  called  Titian. 

So  I  '11  invite  a  lot  of  men 

All  recognized  as  famous 
With  pencil,  piano,  brush,  or  pen, 

Or  may  the  Devil  shame  us. 

I  've  got  a  list,  yes,  sure,  t  'is  here 

And  handy  for  a  fellow, 
And  by  the  stars  I  '11  ask  Shakspere, 

The  boy  who  wrote  Othello. 

Bach  's  quite  the  fashion,  so  they  say, 

And  plays  the  harp  Eolian, 
I  '11  have  him  ;  also,  by  the  way, 

I  '11  have  to  ask  Napoleon. 

There  's  Caesar  too — I  'd  like  to  meet 

That  gay  and  festive  jaguar, 
And  Macbeth  too,  a  blind  old  beat 

Who  could  n't  see  a  dagger. 


No  Education. 

I  '11  have  that  gal  called  Pompadour 

And  cover  her  with  roses, 
And  I  '11  remember  to  be  sure 

To  ask  a  duck  called  Moses. 

He  '11  get  a  card,  and  so  I  think 

Will  Saul  and  Ananias  ; 
They  say  the  first  is  big  on  drink, 

And  the  other 's  rather  pious. 

And  then  there  's  that  old  pard  Voltaire, 
Who  's  devilish  bright  and  witty, 

Also  a  bird  called  Dumasptre, 
The  best  boy  in  the  city. 

I  '11  have  'em,  golly,  you  just  bet, 
This  town  's  bound  to  esteem  us, 

I  '11  dance  with  Marie  Antoinette 
And  Romulus  and  Remus. 

Skollopins  !  how  I  '11  drain  the  wine 
With  jolly  Queen  Christina  ! 

And  go  for  that  superb,  divine 
Old  gal  called  Agrippina. 

And  so  I  '11  get  my  money's  worth, 

The  cream  of  all  the  nation, 
And  prove  there  's  nothing  upon  earth 

Equal  to  education. 


A    BARBER'S    TRIALS. 

I  WEARY  of  my  life,  I  am  a  slave, 

I  know  no  bliss,  no  pleasure,  no  delight, 

Because  I  have  to  curl  and  oil  and  shave 
From  6  A.M.  till  £  past  10  at  night. 

Some  men  come  in  and  take  up  one  full  hour 
To  bandoline  their  poppy  little  bangs, 

And  one  fat  man  is  shaved  within  my  power 
Whose  triple  chin  upon  his  stomach  hangs. 

Some  customers  have  warts  and  wens  and  moles, 
Rashes  and  boils  which  must  not  be  destroyed, 

And  others  own  great  dimples  and  deep  holes, 
Which  I  of  course  must  carefully  avoid. 

Some  jabber  at  me  when  I  calmly  work, 
But  barbers  are  proverbially  dumb, 

Our  duties  we  are  never  known  to  shirk, 
Altho'  our  conversation  powers  are  some. 

And  should  I  make  a  trifling  deep  remark 
While  among  unguents  in  a  Sevres  cup, 

The  brute  I  shave,  as  savage  as  a  shark, 
Will  generally  say  "  Now,  Bill,  dry  up." 


158         A  Barber  s  Trials. 

Some  want  a  shave,  a  curl  and  a  shampoo, 
And  criticise  my  efforts  with  great  wrath  ; 

Then  they  want  beards  trimmed,  and  when  that  is  through 
They  need  their  heads  soaked  in  a  vapor  bath. 

While  others  wish  their  hair  dyed  brown  or  black 

And  some  desire  ablution  of  the  ears, 
Others  want  perfume  squirted  down  the  back, 

And  many  cut  their  thumb  nails  with  my  shears. 

Some  have  long  hairs  that  flourish  on  the  nose, 
And  some  have  even  had  their  eyebrows  shaved  ; 

And  it 's  a  wonder  as  the  whole  thing  goes 
That  I  from  an  asylum  have  been  saved. 

Once,  when  I  'd  finished  one  man's  awful  cheek 
And  worked  upon  the  other  might  and  main, 

The  beard  grew  out  once  more  in  ways  unique, 
And  I  was  forced  to  shave  it  off  again. 

The  Samsons  that  came  in  to  be  recurled 
Are  enough  to  take  your  very  breath  away, 

And  oft  I  wonder  how  the  deuce  this  world 
Can  raise  such  fearful  tresses  every  day. 

They  try  me — yea,  they  try  me  till  I  'm  glad 
The  job  is  done,  and  then  they  stop  and  stare 

Within  the  glass,  and  use  up  the  pomade 

And  waste  a  quart  of  bay-rum  on  their  hair. 

And  then  they  have  their  clothes  brushed  for  display 
And  strut  about  like  Ministers  of  State, 

Pay  me  in  doubtful  change,  and  go  away 
Stealing  a  morning  paper  sure  as  fate. 


THE    GIRL    ENTHUSIAST. 

I  READ  the  works  of  men  I  thought  divine, 
And  having  all  my  summer  time  to  spare, 

With  drafts  on  Rothschild  and  Munroe  all  mine, 
I  thought  I  'd  beard  these  lions  in  their  lair. 

I  crossed  the  raging  tempest-haunted  seas, 
A  blessing  on  my  favorites  to  bestow, 

And  being  a  true  and  pure  born  Bostonese, 
I  did  not  tremble  very  much,  you  know. 

I  read  the  offspring  of  their  genius  pure — 
Those  lovely  works  that  foster  such  delight — 

My  heart  held  all  Rossetti's  lines  secure, 

Swinburnian  odes  I  dreamed  of  day  and  night. 

So,  when  I  reached  the  vast  and  haughty  turn 
That  held  such  genius  in  its  damp  control, 

I  worshipped  London  and  its  great  renown, 
While  fog  and  bliss  made  combat  in  my  soul. 

I  stopped  at  Chelsea  on  my  pious  way 
To  see  the  great  and  wonderful  Carlyle  ; 

He  sat  upon  his  stoop  and  puffed  his  clay, 
With  an  intense,  Mephistophelian  smile. 

159 


160       The  Girl  Enthusiast. 

I  saw  his  beauteous  lips,  his  hair  !  his  eyes  ! 

The  glorious  brow  which  knew  such  lots  of  French  ; 
I  knelt  before  him  in  entranced  surprise, 

And  all  he  said  was,  "  Oop,  ye  dom  auld  wench." 

Enthusiasm  died  upon  my  lips, 

I  rose  in  anger,  blushing  and  in  pain  ; 
He  was  a  brute  !     Alas,  my  soul's  eclipse  ! 

I  meekly  bowed  and  took  the  passing  train. 

Then  to  young  Swinburne  I  did  feebly  go, 
Hot  with  such  insult,  heedless  of  the  rain, 

Hoping  to  find  a  sweet,  poetic  glow, 
Within  his  eyes,  a  gentleman  of  pain. 

He  took  me  in  a  little  private  room, 

Bidding  my  sanguine  soul  have  no  sad  fear. 

He  praised  me,  thanked  me  in  the  perfumed  gloom, 
And  tried  to  bite  the  beauty  of  my  ear. 

He  said  that  I  was  fairer  than  the  stars, 
More  foamy  than  the  foamiest  of  seas  ; 

But  ah  !  his  eyes  were  lurid  like  cigars, 
His  breath  was  redolent  with  sangarees. 

And  so  I  hurled  him  from  me  on  the  mat, 

And  to  Rossetti's  sweet,  poetic  house 
Hurried  without  my  parasol  or  hat 

With  blushing  cheeks  and  damozelish  brows. 

He  was  at  home,  and  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  thanked  me  for  my  visit  in  these  words  : 

"  Thou  art  a  maiden  from  a  distant  land, 
Thy  weirdness  is  like  that  of  cherub-birds." 


The  Girl  Enthusiast.       161 

"  Thou  hast  a  tender  temple — aye,  I  wis, 
That  dost  thee  proud  in  colorful  sad  ways, 

Let  me  but  plume  thee,  warbler,  with  a  kiss, 
A  gamboge  ochre  kiss  of  suavest  rays." 

Then  I  arose  and  sought  his  wig's  fond  roots, 
Tore  him  asunder  and  escaped  at  last, 

And  o'er  my  morning  muffins,  tea  and  fruits, 
At  Morley's  I  did  think  of  what  had  passed. 

The  lesson  was  severe,  and  then  I  stole 
Forth  from  the  city  and  its  inner  paths 

Down  where  sweet  Tennyson,  all  heart  and  soul, 
Calmed  with  his  verse  the  universe's  wraths. 

He  was  at  home,  received  me  like  a  bird, 
And  read  me  all  the  Princess  and  Elaine, 

Followed  by  In  Memoriam  word  for  word, 
And  humbly  hoped  that  I  would  call  again. 

He  read  twelve  hours  and  listened  to  my  praise, 
But  when  I  slept  at  the  concluding  verse 

He  tore  my  chignon  in  fierce  English  ways, 
And  left  my  presence  with  a  withering  curse. 

Then  unto  Dobson  I  did  meekly  rush, 

Saying,  "  I  think  Autonoe  supreme," 
And  he  with  a  divine  and  R£genee  blush 

Treated  me  instantly  to  lemon  cream. 

So,  of  the  famous  men  in  verse  and  art, 
I  crossed  the  waves  tempestuous  to  see 

One  only  had  the  kindness  and  the  heart 
To  leave  his  own  affairs  and  think  of  me. 


THE    POLITE    CITY. 

I  HAD  a  dream  that  New  York,  over  night, 
Became  supremely,  laughably  polite. 

Religious,  too,  and  it  was  curious  then, 
To  see  the  manners  new  of  many  men. 

Who  knowing  naught  of  courtesy  before, 
Became  like  Chesterfield's  and  even  more. 

My  reverie  took  me,  as  I  thought  of  that, 
Into  a  hatter's  store  to  price  a  hat. 

And  as  I  entered  it  the  boss  arose, 

And,  bowing  till  his  fingers  reached  his  toes. 

Said  in  a  loud  voice  in  my  deafest  ear  : 

"  Be  seated  pray,  God  bless  your  soul  my  dear. 

"  May  angels  ever  hover  round  your  bed, 
And  what  may  be  the  last  size  of  your  head  ? 

"  May  saints  protect  me,  but  I  think  your  brow 
Is  perhaps  almost  the  noblest  anyhow 
162 


The  Polite  City.  163 

;<  That  I  for  many,  many  a  year  have  seen, 
And  may  sweet  Heaven  your  soul  from  trouble 
screen." 

Then  I  replied  without  the  slightest  quiver  : 
"  May  holy  cherubim  protect  your  liver. 

"  May  crowns  of  glory  on  your  forehead  sit, 
But  for  God's  sake  just  see  and  get  my  fit." 

"  I  will,"  he  cried,  "  this  brim  will  not  distress  you  ; 
Delightful  stranger,  may  the  seraphs  bless  you. 

"  May  paradise  preserve  you  thro'  life's  fever — 
Six  dollars  is  the  price  for  this  here  beaver. 

"  Be  therefore  counted  with  God's  chosen  sheep — 
For  by  the  holy  church  the  hat  is  cheap." 

I  saw  the  hat  was  made  of  walrus  hide 

And  knew  that  this  urbane  old  beat  had  lied  ; 

But  calmly  said,  "  pray  show  me  up  another — 
And  may  a  crown  of  glory  wait  thy  brother." 

"  I  have  no  brother,"  he  with  tears  replied, 
"  But  once  I  had  a  sister  fair  who  died." 


"  Well,  then,"  said  I,  "  may  her  pure  ghost  grow 

fat — 
But  for  the  love  of  Moses  bring  my  hat." 


64  The  Polite  City. 

And  then  I  saw,  as  easy  as  a  song, 

That  in  this  town  polite  he  'd  not  been  long. 

Because  he  took  in  vain  his  maker's  name 
While  hunting  other  beavers  on  the  frame. 

"  May  several  archangels  with  blue  eyes 

Watch  o'er  your  couch  and  wave  away  the  flies," 

I  said,  as  forth  from  some  deep  box  he  drew 
A  gay  sombrero  worth  a  dime  or  two. 

"  How  much  is  this  ?  you  unctuous  old  man, 
Sell  it  to  me  as  dirt  cheap  as  you  can." 

"  This  hat,"  he  said,  "  is  very  latest  style — 

And  may  St.  Matthew  on  your  breastbone  smile. 

"  May  all  the  minor  prophets  also  bless 
Your  beatific  eyebrows  none  the  less — 

"  Nine  dollars  is  the  price  of  this  of  late, 
But  for  your  courteous  holiness  't  is  eight !  " 

I  saw  the  wretch  intended  to  deceive, 

And  with  a  haughty  brow  prepared  to  leave. 

But  thinking  better  of  it,  with  a  sigh 
I  punched  him  in  the  nostril  and  the  eye 

And  said  in  accents  most  politely  curt, 
"  I  hope  to  gracious  you  're  not  hurt .'  " 


THE  ASTRONOMER. 

JUST  3  and  20  hours  I  pass 

From  4  and  20  daily, 
My  optic  glued  unto  my  glass 

Watching  the  Heavens  gaily. 

It  is  my  life,  my  love,  and  hope, 
My  business  and  my  glory, 

To  peep  into  a  telescope 
In  my  laboratory. 

I  study  thus  from  dawn  to  night 

The  universes  stellar, 
Substantial   by  that  tremendous  sight 

And — lager  from  the  cellar. 

I  see  what 's  going  on  in  Mars, 

And  know  they  shake  their  flipper, 

And  know  the  politics  of  Stars 
From  Sai'ph  to  the  Dipper. 

Ay  !  I  behold  of  folks  a  few 

In  Cetus  and  Orion, 
And  I  can  draw  their  pictures  too, 

As  sure  as  my  name  's  O'Brien  ! 
165 


1 66  The  Astronomer. 

In  spite  of  several  miles  of  space, 
That  oscillate  between  us, 

I  know  the  tricks  and  the  disgrace 
That 's  going  on  in  Venus. 

And  secrets  there  are  known  to  me 
In  some  far  constellation, 

Which  if  I  printed  here,  d"  you  see, 
Would  terrify  the  nation. 

But  I  can  tell  without  a  fear 
That  in  the  planet  Sirius, 

The  people  for  imported  beer 
Are  perfectly  delirious. 

In  Saturn,  every  one  alive, 
According  to  my  glasses, 

Takes  his  gin  flip  at  ^  past  5 
With  sugar  or  molasses. 

I  Ve  studied  the  religions,  too, 

Of  people  in  a  comet, 
Some  think  that  Methodism  's  true, 

Some  knuckle  to  Mahomet. 

White  folks  who  live  as  cold  as  bricks 

In  gelid  old  Arcturus, 
Religiously  believe  in  nix, 

So  do  my  lens  assure  us. 

In  Algal  many  hundreds  there 
Have  trouble  in  the  bladder, 

And  their  sad  fate,  seen  everywhere, 
Is  really  worse  than  Sad'r. 


The  Astronomer.  167 

While  in  old  Cepheus,  starry  elf, 

They  worship  a  Dutch  Kaiser, 
And  if  you  doubt,  why  see  for  yourself 

And  strive  to  grow  up  wiser. 

So  when  my  eyes  begin  to  tire, 

Gazing  in  expectation 
On  every  planet  there  on  fire, 

And  every  constellation, 

I  mix  my  brandy  sangaree 

That  all  my  vitals  blesses, 
And  drink  until  more  stars  I  see 

Than  Heaven  itself  possesses. 


MY  WILL. 

i. 

SINCE  my  eventful  day  of  birth, 
Most  everywhere  I  've  travelled, 

And  all  the  mysteries  of  the  earth 
With  ease  I  have  unravelled. 

II. 

There  is  no  portion  of  the  globe 
That  I  have  not  inspected, 

With  patience  similar  to  Job, 
And  ne  'er  by  pain  dejected. 

HI. 

Therefore  unto  my  old  friend  Bill, 

A  gentle,  fine  civilian, 
If  he  with  trust  obeys  my  will 

I  '11  leave  a  half  a  million. 


IV. 

I  wish  when  dead  that  he  will  see 
My  corpse  is  well  protected, 

And  have  it  by  rare  surgery 
Most  daintily  dissected. 
168 


My  Will.  169 


V. 


There  he  must  keep  it  soaked  in  oil 
The  fat  parts  and  the  hollow, 

And  with  most  amicable  toil 
My  last  instructions  follow. 


VI. 


I  wish  to  have  my  sinless  heart 
Buried  in  East  Australia, 

And  my  rum-suffering  kidney  part 
Interred  in  South  Westphalia. 


VII. 


I  wish  my  old,  red  Roman  nose 

To  fertilize  Liberia, 
And  wish,  say  seven  of  my  toes 

He  'd  plant  in  North  Algeria. 


VIII. 


I  want  these  lungs  that  cause  my  groans, 

Across  the  ocean  ferried, 
And  with  my  shoulder-blade  and  bones 

In  Lapland  to  be  buried. 


IX. 


I  wish  my  left  eye  to  be  laid 
In  Ireland's  forests  sappy, 

In  sweet  seclusion  in  the  shade 
Where  once  it  was  so  happy. 


My  Will. 


X. 


As  for  the  other,  I  request 
A  tomb  for  it  in  Russia, 

And  he  can  lay  my  hair  at  rest 
Somewhere  in  Southern  Prussia. 


XI. 


My  brawny  arms  must  both  be  thrown 

Into  the  Danube  river, 
And  the  blue,  arrow-fleeting  Rhone, 

Must  swallow  up  my  liver. 


XII. 


I  want  my  heels  and  skin  to  lie 

In  Turkish  Macedonia, 
And  portions  of  my  withered  thigh 

Three  miles  off  Patagonia. 


XIII. 


I  wish  my  sinews  to  remain 
With  both  my  ears  in  Guinea, 

My  thorax  must  be  sent  to  Spain, 
My  thumbs  to  old  Virginny. 


XIV. 


I  wish  my  spine  to  rest  beneath 
Ohio's  passing  blizzard, 

I  leave  to  Paraguay  my  teeth, 
To  Tripoli  my  gizzard. 


My  Will.  171 


XV. 


Part  of  my  tonsils  must  repose 
In  Texan  fields  of  madder, 

And  in  the  Archipelagoes 
He  must  locate  my  bladder. 


XVI. 


But  he  must  do  it  wondrous  well, 
With  fearful  craft  and  mystery, 

And  he  must  swear  to  never  tell 
My  secret  or  its  history. 


XVII. 


And  then  on  resurrection  day, 
The  thought  will  much  affect  me 

How  poor  old  Gabe  will  have  to  stray 
A  fortnight  to  collect  me  ! 


A    LOCOMOTIVE    SPEAKS. 

I  'M  tired  of  my  obnoxious  life, 
I  'm  overworked  and  weary  ; 

I  cannot  stand  this  constant  strife  ; 
This  to  and  fro  on  Erie. 

Besides,  I  'm  getting  pretty  old, 

Doing  this  negro's  duty, 
I'm  badly  washed,  and  poorly  coaled, 

And  I  have  lost  my  beauty. 

My  bell  don't  ring,  I  cannot  shriek, 
My  bovine-trap  is  broken, 

And  of  my  former  grace  and  chic 
I  cannot  show  a  token. 

I  used  to  be  a  fast  Express, 
And  always  space  devour, 

But  now  I  run,  with  utmost  stress, 
Say  half  a  mile  an  hour. 

My  engineer  is  two-thirds  drunk, 
And  hardly  ever  stops  me  ; 

I  stop  myself  when  tired  and  shrunk, 
And  then  the  company  drops  me  ! 
172 


A  Locomotive  Speaks.       173 

But  when  there  happens  on  this  line 

A  jolly  old  collision, 
I  'm  cleaned  again,  and  made  to  shine 

Enough  to  blind  your  vision. 

They  run  me  night,  they  run  me  day, 

Refixed,  rebuilt,  reburnished, 
And  make  me  gently  drag  away 

Their  cars,  by  Pullman  furnished. 

There,  I  grow  mad,  my  breath  gets  black, 

With  angry  throbs  I  quiver  ; 
And  in  the  night  I  jump  the  track, 

And  hurl  them  in  the  river  ! 

But  I  'm  fished  out,  and  put  to  vvork, 

Altho'  the  idiots  know  not 
The  awful  vengeances  that  lurk 

Within  my  breast  I  show  not. 

They  never  stick  a  crimson  flag 

Upon  me  to  adorn  me, 
No  !  but  they  make  me  pant,  and  drag 

Great  cattle-trains,  and  scorn  me. 

The  coal  they  give  's  not  fit  for  food, 

They  're  stingy  on  the  rations, 
The  engineer  is  coarse  and  rude, 

And  stops  at  all  the  stations. 

So,  I  have  sworn,  with  angry  zest, 

After  full  many  a  warning, 
To  wait,  until  my  train  goes  West, 

And  bust  to-morrow  morning  ! 


A   DONATION. 

I  LEAVE  my  dainty  love  my  hair 
To  twist  in  braids,  if  duteous, 

And  trust  she  wont  try  anywhere 
To  match  its  color  beauteous. 

I  leave,  when  I  shall  lie  beneath 
The  ground  refrigerating, 

The  pick  of  twenty  of  my  teeth, 
All  sound  as  what  I  'm  stating. 

Ten  of  the  same  she  can  have  set 
Within  a  gorgeous  locket, 

And  never  can  the  rest  forget 
When  dangling  in  her  pocket. 

I  also  leave  my  heart  so  rare, 
Preserved  in  Martell  brandy, 

And  she  can  stick  it  anywhere 
That  happens  to  be  handy. 

I  likewise  leave  my  nails,  of  late 

So  very  long  and  rosy, 
For  her  to  use  as  paper-weight, 

Within  her  boudoir  cosy. 


A  Donation. 

And  she  can  utilize  my  ear, 

Which  once  she  loved  to  storm  at, 

Without  a  particle  of  fear, 
For  her  back-entry  door-mat. 

I  wish  she  'd  have  my  bones  and  shins 
When  free  from  Life's  sad  Vandals, 

Made  into  costly  corset-pins 
And  extra  fine  knife-handles. 

And  both  my  eyes  when  petrified, 
Those  eyes  that  ne'er  were  cruel, 

Would  shine  real  sweetly  by  her  side, 
Set  in  some  useful  jewel. 

My  corpus  which  she  loved  so  much, 
Saved  from  all  grave-marauders, 

Will  by  a  skilful  surgeon's  touch 
Be  cut  up  by  my  orders. 

It  will  be  boiled  down  after  that, 
In  spite  of  lasting  scandals, 

And  all  my  pure,  delicious  fat 
Will  be  turned  into  candles. 

These  will  be  given  to  her  to  keep, 
And  use  with  love's  discretion, 

To  light  her  in  her  dangerous  sleep, 
And  give  her  dreams  expression. 

And  then  I  hope  when  she  doth  sup, 
She  '11  think  of  me  most  sweetly, 

And  as  she  used  to  blow  me  up, 
Will  blow  me  out  completely. 


A   BIRD   FANCIER'S    LOVE   SONG. 

LIST,  beauteous  maiden  of  my  soul, 
I  love  thee  more,  my  fairest, 

Than  any  kind  of  oriole, 
The  commonest  or  rarest. 

With  ordinary  runs  of  birds 
I  would  not  dare  compare  thee, 

But  really  I  can  find  no  words 
To  tell  the  love  I  bear  thee. 

I  feel  that  I  was  born  thy  prize, 

The  first  ecstatic  minutes 
When  I  gazed  ravished  in  thine  eyes, 

Brown  as  an  English  linnet's. 

Thy  long  and  glossy  silken  hair 

Is  softer  than  a  fairy's, 
And  its  delicious  tints  compare 

With  lory's  and  canary's. 

When  listening  to  thy  dulcet  voice 
As  through  thy  throat  it  gushes, 

The  sound,  oh  dear  one  of  my  choice, 
Is  like  a  thousand  thrushes. 
176 


A  Bird  Fancier  s  Love  Song.   177 

Thy  lips  are  like  a  robin's  breast, 

Thy  glance  is  proud  and  regal, 
And  thy  grand  gestures  I  attest 

Remind  me  of  an  eagle. 

Thy  skin  is  like  a  snow-white  dove, 
Thy  breath  is  sweet  and  May-like  ; 

And  thy  rare  conversation,  love, 
Is  parrotesque  and  jay-like. 

The  egg  of  hope  within  my  frame 

Lies  now,  thy  prize  and  booty, 
Oh  set  upon  it  with  love's  flame 

And  hatch  it  with  thy  beauty. 

Why  see  me  here  distressed  and  pale  ? 

Pity  my  heart  doubt-stricken, 
Before  thee  now  I  humbly  quail, 

Oh  best  beloved  chicken. 

What  is  the  costly  emu's  tail 

Or  plumes  of  cassowary 
Compared  to  thine  hand,  wee,  and  frail, 

And  soft  as  feathers  weary  ? 

And  how  can  any  kind  of  fowl, 

Tough,  colorful  or  tender, 
Tomtit,  or  bobolink,  or  owl, 

Compare  with  thee  in  splendor  ? 

List,  beauteous  maiden  of  my  soul, 

I  love  thee  more,  my  fairest, 
Than  any  Cuban  oriole, 

The  commonest  or  rarest. 


78  A  Bird  Fancier  s  Love  Song. 

These  were  the  phrases  and  the  words 

I  used  to  that  fair  creature, 
She  who  had  something  vague  of  birds 

In  every  form  and  feature. 

She  's  been  my  wife  for  many  a  year, 
This  girl  of  grace  and  culture  : 

But  I  must  say,  when  food  is  near, 
She  now  is  like  a  vulture  ! 


THE  JOKING  DOCTOR. 

I  KNEW  a  doctor  years  ago, 

Aged  forty,  fat,  and  ruddy, 
Who  made  of  puns,  both  high  and  low, 

A  most  important  study. 

To  men  who  fasted  for  a  day, 

Whose  lungs  were  but  presumption, 

He  'd  say  in  a  most  joyous  way, 

"  How  great  is  your  consumption  !  " 

And  added  that  in  many  ways, 

His  heart  was  sympathetic, 
And  how  his  skill  brought  forth  more  praise, 

Than  any  known  emetic. 

When  called  upon  to  use  his  power, 

And  check  some  angry  tumor, 
He  'd  cry  "  how  can  you  look  so  sour, 

You  're  in  delicious  humour  !  " 

And  if  some  sighed  "  the  room  needs  air," 

Before  the  mourners  present, 
He  'd  smile,  and  gently  say,  "  forbear, 

Your  rheum  is  very  pleasant." 
179 


The  Joking  Doctor. 

My  daughter  Annie,  on  the  stoop, 
Fell  sick  in  strangest  manner, 

This  doctor  came,  and  said  "  it 's  croup, 
I  '11  ipecac  you,  Anna  !  " 

And  when  I  asked  him,  "  shall  I  die," 

After  some  great  entreaties, 
He  muttered  "  yes,"  with  one  closed  eye, 

"  Unless  you  diabetes  !  " 

And  thus  for  many,  many  years, 
This  creature  has  been  stunning 

Thousands  of  helpless,  suffering  ears, 
By  his  atrocious  punning. 

But  I  will  have  my  joke  on  him, 

Altho'  to  me  't  is  trying  ; 
For  sometime  back  I  've  felt  quite  slim, 

He  told  me  I  was  dying. 

His  bill  since  last  July  is  due, 

And  it  will  make  him  holler 
To  find  (I  tell  this  entre  nous\ 

I  have  n't  left  a  dollar  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  A  CHEMIST. 


I  REALLY  think  it  is  sublime 

Upon  this  earth  below 
To  gaily  spend  one's  fleeting  time 

With  Na  Ca  O. 


n. 

And  I  perpetually  bless 
The  ever-happy  day, 

When  first  I  found  out  Zn  S. 
With  A,,  and  Ba. 


III. 

CIO  and  Htl  fill 

My  heart  with  utter  joy, 
N  H4  Q  makes  me  thrill 

Sr  my  soul  can  buoy. 

IV. 

With  acids,  alum,  salts,  and  lyes, 
I  pass  the  pleasant  hours, 

Chlorides  are  sacred  in  my  eyes 
I  worship  oxides'  powers. 
181 


The  Song  of  a  Chemist. 


V. 


I  glory  in  the  mysteries  rare 

Of  H,0  C2  3  : 
While  Hg.  S,  I  can  declare, 

Brings  ravishment  to  me.  . 


VI. 


HB  2  Ci  can  dispel 

All  morbid  thoughts  of  men 
And  so  can  A,,  Cv — 1. 


When  mixed  with  Sy — N. 

VII. 

Last  night  my  marvelous  skill  to  show, 

I  took  my  favorite  cat 
And  gave  it  Ms  PI  O. 

When  purring  on  the  mat. 

VIII. 

It  died  in  agony  that  night 

With  spasms  93  ! 
My  calculations  were  not  right 

It  should  have  been  P.~. 


IX. 

CX4  H4  N.  02 

Then  to  my  birds  I  gave, 
Which  led  them  (this  is  entre  nous) 

Directly  to  the  grave. 


The  Song  of  a  Chemist.      183 


X. 


The  secrets  now  of  death  and  life 

I  hold  as  sure  as  fate, 
And  I  would  like  to  see  my  wife 

Scold  if  I  come  home  late. 


XI. 


For  should  she  any  rage  express, 
She  '11  find  within  her  tea 

Some  baneful  AI  Hd  S. 
And  deadly  Ps  G  ! 


THE    MEDIUM. 

I  ENTERED  in  a  strange  house  badly  lit, 
And  paid  five  dollars  to  behold  the  show, 

But  as  the  greenback  was  a  counterfeit, 
I  did  n't  care  a  particle,  you  know. 

A  tipsy  table  blocked  up  half  the  room, 
The  sullen  medium  waited  at  his  post, 

And  twenty  women  shuddering  in  the  gloom 
Were  waiting  there  to  see  their  favorite  ghost. 

The  wizard  asked  me,  "  Who  do  you  want  to  hear, 
For  I  invoke  the  spirits  that  complain," 

And  I  groaned  out  in  simulated  fear, 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  sister  Mary  Jane." 

He  gave  a  mighty  rap  with  a  rattan, 
I  feeling  all  the  while  he  was  a  rogue, 

And  sure  enough,  I  heard  some  Irishman 

Cry  out,  "  Oim  here,"  with  a  tremendous  brogue. 

And  that  was  all.     He  did  the  talking  then, 
And  said  Jane  lived  in  Heaven,  far,  far  away  ; 

That  she  was  happier  than  we  wretched  men, 
And  that  she  played  the  cornet  night  and  day. 
184 


The  Medium.  185 

But  I  knew  well  that  Janie  was  alive 

And  only  twanged  the  Jewsharp  to  begin, 

And  that  three  times  a  week  she  could  contrive 
To  get  uproarious  on  a  quart  of  gin. 

But  I  said  nought,  such  was  my  great  control, 
And  asked  the  medium  news  of  Barney  Flynn, 

And  Barney  answered,  "  Heaven  now  holds  my  soul, 
And  I  am  very  pure  and  free  from  sin." 

While  I  knew  well  the  voice  had  vilely  lied 
And  in  the  path  of  truth  could  never  keep, 

For  poor  old  Barney  was  securely  tied 

In  one  of  Sing  Sing's  cells  for  stealing  sheep. 

"  And  where  's  Mike  Duffy's  soul  "  (for  that 's  my  name) 

I  then  demanded  tho'  I  knew  too  well. 
The  medium  paused  and  said  :  "  He  writhes  in  flame 

Deep  in  the  sulphurous  burning  pits  of  Hell." 

"  The  devil  you  say,"  says  I,  /won't  insist, 
/  'm  Michael  Duffy  I  will  have  you  know, 

And  then  I  cracked  his  false  teeth  with  my  fist, 
And  it  was  not  a  spiritual  blow. 

I  left  him  bleeding  in  a  woful  plight 

His  visage  maimed  by  many  a  gash  and  scar, 

And  all  the  spirits  that  I  saw  that  night 
Were  served  up  hot  on  Tim  O'Brien's  bar. 


THE  MENAGERIE  AND  THE  LOCOMOTIVE. 

SOME  wicked  boys  on  mischief  bent, 
Some  rascals,  keen  and  badgery, 

Crawled  into  Barnum's  Circus  tent, 
And  let  loose  the  managerie. 

And  in  an  instant  every  beast 

Forth  from  his  cage  came  prowling, 

And  with  his  appetite  increased 
Stood  on  the  highway  howling. 

They  happened  in  their  wild  stampede 

To  cross  great  forests  dreary, 
And  found  themselves  in  woful  need 

Upon  the  track  near  Erie. 

Deep  in  a  ravine  they  sought  rest, 
With  nought  to  eat  save  thistles, 

And  then  they  heard  with  hearts  oppressed, 
The  down-train's  strident  whistles  ! 

The  mammoth  Greenland  Polar  bear, 

Made  sacrifices  votive, 
And  offered  nobly,  then  and  there, 

To  stop  that  locomotive. 

1 86 


Menagerie  and  Locomotive.   187 

It  thundered  by  in  smoke  and  soot, 

Racing  the  New  York  Central, 
And  did  n't  leave  of  that  poor  brute, 

An  eye,  a  tooth,  or  entrail. 

Then  the  fierce  bob-tailed  Asian  yak 

The  engine's  catcher  butted, 
And  all  his  gore  upon  the  track, 

In  crimson  fountains  jutted. 

Then  came  two  valiant  chimpanzees, 

Hoping  to  be  more  lucky, 
But  they  were  boosted  with  great  ease 

In  fragments  to  Kentucky. 

Then  others  came  and  vainly  tried 

To  stop  the  iron  giant, 
While  their  wild  yells  on  every  side, 

Rose,  angry  and  defiant. 

The  camel  next  was  mauled  to  punk, 

The  gnu  was  blown  to  cinders, 
And  portions  of  the  Chinese  skunk 

Were  hoisted  through  the  "  winders." 

The  train  still  rushed  on  swift  and  hard, 

And  made  light  of  the  tapir, 
While  the  ferocious  Nubian  pard, 

Was  boomeranged  to  vapor. 

Then  the  great  elephant  arose, 

And  with  his  trunk  stupendous, 
Dealt  that  old  engine  twenty  blows, 

In  ways  men  call  tremendous  ! 


1 88  Menagerie  and  Locomotive. 

But  he  was  tossed  to  Central  Maine, 

As  also  was  the  Castor, 
And  then  that  old,  victorious  train, 

Just  snorted,  and  went  faster. 

And,  as  all  Barnum's  beasts  were  dead, 

With  greatest  exultation, 
The  engineer,  one  hour  ahead, 

Stopped  at  the  final  station  ! 


THE    CRUEL    DOCTOR. 


I  LOVE  to  make  some  helpless  man 
Suffer  as  fiercely  as  I  can  ; 
And  watch  him  slowly  fade  and  languish, 
Blue  in  the  face  with  drugs  and  anguish. 

ii. 

I  love  to  hear  a  robust  child 
Make  its  old  nurse,  by  fear  half  wild, 
Think,  when  he  howls  like  stricken  weasels, 
That  it  is  death,  when  't  is  but  measles. 

in. 

I  love  the  most  some  strange  disease 
That  baffles  my  worst  remedies  ; 
And  I  am  in  the  best  of  humors 
When  all  my  patients  writhe  with  tumors. 


It  causes  me  intense  delight 

At  any  time  of  day  or  night, 

To  order  beer  for  bilious  ladies 

And  keep  them  on  the  road  to  Hades. 

189 


The  Cruel  Doctor. 


V. 


It 's  always  been  my  greatest  joy 
To  get  some  very  little  boy, 
And  see  if  he  can  in  his  frolics 
Eat  ten  green  apples  without  colics. 


VI. 


All  this  is  perfect  bliss  to  me, 
And  I  would  give  my  soul  to  be 
In  far,  unknown  constellations 
The  scourge  and  terror  of  all  nations. 


VII. 


And  where  I  could  in  fiendish  glee 
(Myself  from  all  diseases  free), 
Make  them  exist  by  means  terrific 
On  air  infernally  morbific. 


A    KIND    OF    CRITIC. 

WITH  pompous  mien  and  all-important  air, 
He  '11  say  your  views  are  premature  and  rash, 

And  with  a  grave  grandiloquence  declare 
That  all  the  verse  of  later  years  is  trash. 

To  satisfy  his  most  aesthetic  mind 

In  all  the  modern  work  he  labors  through, 

He  grieves  to  state  he  really  cannot  find 

One  worthy  line,  one  thought  supremely  new. 

You  ask  :  "  And  Swinburne  ?  "    Well,  he  has  some  fire, 
He  will  allow  ;  "  but  then  so  very  crude." 

Browning  ?  "  Bah  !  verbose,  of  his  style  you  tire." 
Hugo  ?     "A  bard  of  second  magnitude." 

Longfellow  ?  "  Dabbles  in  all  kinds  of  verse." 
Lowell  ?  "  A  fraud,  and  so  was  Bryant,  too. 

They  do  not  write,"  he  cries,  "  in  language  terse, 
As  real  and  god-born  poets  always  do." 

Then  he  will  say,  to  your  intense  surprise, 
That  Whittier  is  a  rhymester,  very  low  ; 

And,  finally,  will  harshly  criticise 

The  morbid  ravings  of  that  "  crazy  Poe." 
191 


192          A  Kind  of  Critic. 

Rossetti  ?  "  Never  made  a  decent  rhyme," 

He  shrieks,  while  Bret  Harte  has  no  lofty  flight. 

Byron  ?  "  A  loon,  he  never  was  sublime." 

And  William  Morris  ?  "  Don't  know  how  to  write. 


And  as  he  talks  it  seems  as  if  the  air 

Were  tinted  red  with  Tennysonian  gore  ; 

While  bits  of  lacerated  Baudelaire 
Seem  to  exist  and  quiver  on  the  floor. 

And  as  you  gasp  and  dare  not  add  a  word, 
This  critic  gently  smiles  and  says  to  you  : 

"  I  wrote  a  poem  which  you  never  heard, 
I  think  you  will  admire  it,  it  is  new." 

And  he  will  read  to  you,  unhappy  friend, 
Lines  that  begin  "  How  lovely  is  the  night," 

And  which  I  know  invariably  will  end 

With   something   like   "  Beneath   the   moon's   pale 
light." 


THE    NEW   VERSION    OF   THE   BIBLE. 

THEY  say  that  many  errors  grave 

Have  neatly  been  corrected, 
And  words  that  no  full  meaning  gave 

Are  crossed  out  or  ejected. 

They  wonder  how  mistakes  so  rare 
And  marvellous  e'er  could  be  ; 

But  now  they  solemnly  declare 
The  Bible  's  as  it  should  be. 

Perhaps  they  '11  make  a  greater  change, 

More  singularly  weighty  ; 
And  then  the  Bible  will  be  strange 

In  1980  ! 

We  '11  find  out  then  to  our  surprise 

That  slandered  Ananias 
Never  or  rarely  uttered  lies, 

But  was  extremely  pious  ! 

That  David  never  used  a  sling, 

And  did  n't  kill  Goliah, 
Who  was  a  jolly,  poor  old  thing, 

And  never  could  stand  fire  ! 

13  193 


194  The  New  Version  of  the  Bible. 

We  '11  read  that  it  was  not  a  whale 
That  swallowed  luckless  Jonah, 

And  that  poor  Rachel  of  the  tale 
Was  not  the  champion  moaner  ! 

And  more,  that  Absalom's  sad  fate 

Was  merely  idle  prattle, 
Because  he  had  his  hair  cut  straight 

Two  hours  before  the  battle  ! 

Nebuchadnezzar  was  no  beast, 

But  a  sane  king  most  valid  ; 
And  when  he  went  out  for  his  feast, 

He  probably  ate  salad  ! 

We  '11  learn  that  humble  little  Ruth 

Really  possessed  no  feeling, 
And  in  the  fields  of  Boaz,  forsooth, 

The  girl  was  simply  stealing  ! 

And  that  old  Daniel,  best  of  men, 

Urbane,  serene,  and  lettered, 
Found  that  the  lions  in  the  den 

Were  all  securely  fettered  ! 

Also  that  Herod,  the  grim  king, 

Never  on  slaughter  gloated  ; 
But  that  he  was  a  peaceful  thing, 

And  upon  the  children  doted  ! 

They  '11  make  unhappy  Samson  out 

To  be  a  puny  creature, 
Too  weak  and  worn  to  limp  about, 

With  palsy  in  each  feature  ! 


The  New  Version  of  the  Bible.   195 

And  as  for  Solomon,  I  see 

They  '11  clear  up  all  his  mystery  ; 

And  prove  His  Majesty  to  be 
The  biggest  fool  in  history  ! 

Then  the  new  version  will  find  fault 

Because  no  art  cures  lepers, 
And  say  Lot's  wife  turned  not  to  salt, 

But  simply  turned  to  peppers  ! 

In  fancy  and  in  Hebrew  rich, 

Translators  in  their  splendor 
Will  tell  the  whole  world  which  is  which, 

And  which  is  witch  of  Endor  ! 

Also  that  Noah  ne'er  let  the  dove 
Go  from  the  Ark  (the  sinner)  ; 

But,  as  he  relished  the  above, 
He  had  it  stewed  for  dinner  ! 

And  so  they  go  on  without  fear, 

New  versions  ever  seeking, 
Until  at  last  we  think  we  hear 

Old  Balaam's  donkey  speaking. 

Such  are  the  many  errors  grave 
The  wise  men  have  corrected  ; 

But  they,  like  words  that  no  sense  gave, 
Should  also  be  ejected  ! 


THE    DELIGHTS   OF    DOOM. 

I  LOVE  to  visit  unknown  graves 
When  snow  the  woodland  buries, 

And  hear  the  wild  wind  when  it  raves 
Over  grim  cemeteries. 

I  glory  in  the  sight  of  tombs, 
O'er  slabs  I  love  to  ponder  ; 

And  I  am  glad  when  in  the  glooms 
Of  humid  crypts  I  wander. 

I  love  to  hear  the  dolorous  voice 
Of  anguish  and  of  mourning, 

And  when  men  perish,  I  rejoice 
At  death's  untimely  warning. 

I  fain  would  have  the  poet's  fire, 

To  glorify  in  verses 
Death,  doom,  and  all  disaster  dire, 

Shrouds,  monument,  and  hearses. 

I  see  the  morgue  with  eager  eyes, 

The  pastime  never  varies  ; 
And  I  reap  pleasure  and  surprise 

Reading  obituaries. 
196 


The  Delights  of  Doom.       197 

Death  in  all  forms  to  me  is  sweet, 

And  I  am  a  believer 
In  awful  plagues  and  pests  effete 

Polluting  towns  with,  fever. 

War  pleases  me  when  thousands  lie 

Mangled  in  woods  and  closes  ; 
And  of  all  flowers  beneath  the  sky 

I  worship  tuberoses. 

Do  not  misjudge  and  say  I  'm  mad, 

And  cry  against  my  maker, 
But  the  truth  is,  my  biz  is  bad, 

And  I  'm  an  undertaker. 


COOL. 

IT  frequently  has  been  my  lot 
To  meet  a  fat,  perspiring  man, 

Who  roams  about,  distressed  and  hot, 
With  white  straw  hat,  and  broken  fan. 

He  tells  me  he  has  never  known 

Such  weather  since  he  first  drew  breath  ; 
That  he  could  stand  the  torrid  zone, 

But  heat  like  this  is  worse  than  death. 

He  then  proceeds  to  tell  you  how 

From  crowded  streets  he  keeps  aloof ; 

And  how  he  made  a  solemn  vow, 
To  sleep  for  life  upon  the  roof. 

His  anguish  he  will  then  retrace  ; 

He  says  he  takes  nine  baths  a  day, 
While  down  his  red  and  bloated  face 

Hudsons  of  perspirations  stray  ! 

Sudden  demise  from  heat  he  fears, 
Although  prepared  to  meet  the  worst  ; 

He  also  adds  that  eighty  beers 

Have  failed  to  quench  his  awful  thirst. 

198 


Cool. 

And  every  whiff  of  sultry  air 

He  swears  is  most  divinely  fresh  ! 

While  giving  details  everywhere 
About  his  linen  and  his  flesh  ! 

Then,  gazing  on  his  broken  face, 

And  warm,  moist  hands,  you  really  grieve, 
For  the  great  torment  of  this  man, 

No  giant  iceberg  could  relieve. 

But  although  he  may  pant  and  puff, 

Personifying  heat  intense, 
That  man  is  always  cool  enough 

To  borrow  of  you  fifty  cents. 


199 


AN  UNDERTAKER'S  TRIALS. 

I  RARELY  dare  to  write  in  verse — 

My  muse  has  hesitations  ; 
But  now  I  feel  I  must  rehearse 

My  many  tribulations. 

Business,  which  used  to  be  so  fair, 

Is  utterly  prostrated  ; 
Nobody  dies,  and  New  York  air 

By  health  is  permeated  ! 

I  never  knew  such  evil  chance 

My  noble  trade  to  follow  ; 
Men  paralyzed  get  up  and  dance  ! 

Plump  cheeks  succeed  the  hollow  ! 

One  moribund  I  thought  was  mine 
(Death's  gloom  around  him  hovered), 

In  spite  of  twelve  complaints  malign, 
Defied  me,  and  recovered. 

And  one  who  groaned  through  weary  nights, 

Seeing  the  tomb  yawn  wider, 
Tortured  by  gout,  and  mumps,  and  Bright's, 

Is  now  a  circus-rider. 
200 


An  Undertaker  s  Trials.    201 

Another,  who  had  sunken  eyes, 

Who  caught  his  breath  by  snatches, 

Is  able  now  to  take  the  prize 
At  all  the  walking  matches. 

Diseases  dire  by  all  are  cured, 

The  doctors  are  not  merry  ; 
People  from  sickness  are  insured, 

There  's  no  one  left  to  bury. 

The  hospitals  are  giving  way, 

The  drug-trade  cries  stagnation  ; 

And  even  the  Morgue  is  madly  gay 
With  strange  resuscitation. 

There  are  no  accidents,  no  crimes, 

No  civil  war,  no  riot, 
No  luck  for  me  in  these  hard  times, 

Abominably  quiet. 

It  would  not  cause  me  much  surprise 

(O  Death,  my  patron,  pardon  !) 
To  see  your  Greenwood,  with  these  eyes, 

Turn  to  a  weiss-bier  garden  ! 

And,  if  this  keeps  on,  bye-and-bye 

Life  will  become  perennial, 
And  no  one  will  consent  to  die 

Until  the  next  Centennial ! 


PLEASURES  OF  ROYALTY. 


THE  happiness  of  queens  and  kings 
In  Europe  now  is  not  progressing  : 

A  wrong  most  sad  above  all  things, 

One,  we  might  say,  that  needs  redressing 

For  every  one  who  wears  a  crown 
In  proud  and  haughty  exultation, 

Now  represents,  in  field  or  town, 
The  target  of  a  living  nation  ! 

No  powerful  prince  can  venture  out 
To  ride  in  all  his  gorgeous  trappings, 

Minus  some  communistic  shout, 
Or  very  deadly  pistol-snappings  ! 

And  should  some  princess  fair  and  bright 
Drive  forth  to  festival  or  marriage, 

A  ton  of  murderous  dynamite 

Will  go  off  underneath  her  carriage  ! 

We  would  not  be  at  all  surprised 

To  hear  that  sovereigns  most  splendid, 

Once  by  the  people  idolized, 

Had  life  by  plug-shot  softly  ended  ! 
202 


Pleasures  of  Royalty.       203 

And  that  grave  "  premiers  "  bold  and  proud, 
Great  diplomats  that  naught  had  staggered, 

Had  been  torpedoed  in  a  crowd, 
Or  with  great  local  color  daggered  ! 

The  King  of  Italy  some  day 

May  find  rat-poison  in  his  "  pony," 

Or  later,  to  his  great  dismay, 
A  bombshell  in  his  macaroni ! 

And  sometimes  with  his  brilliant  troupe 

Of  officers,  young  Wilhelm  Kaiser 
May  find  within  his  sauerkraut  soup 

Some  strychnine  for  an  appetizer  ! 

As  for  the  list  of  murdered  earls 

Or  mighty  dukes  assassinated, 
I  'm  sure  't  would  make  for  boys  and  girls 

A  royal  weekly — illustrated. 

So,  soon  a  common  thing  't  will  be 
To  have  dispatches  cross  the  ocean, 

"  Four  kings  were  shot  at  half-past  three  ; 
"We  cable  it  without  emotion  !  " 


A  WRITER. 

HE  does  not  know  his  English  well, 
Our  vulgar  words  he  scorns  to  praise, 

And,  consequently,  thinks  it  swell 
To  trifle  with  the  Gallic  phrase. 

He  writes  amour  instead  of  "  love," 
Whenever  he  can  find  the  chance  ; 

Colombe  is  more  gentil  than  "  dove," 
It  gives  the  essence  of  all  France. 

And  when  he  scrawls  his  mongrel  prose, 
By  many  foreign  terms  disguised, 

He  Frenchifies  a  simple  "  rose," 
And  has  it  down  italicised  ! 

For  "  darling,"  che'rie  you  will  find 
In  every  chapter,  sure  as  fate  ; 

And    for  the  glory  of  mankind, 
He  would  not  miss  a  t£te-a-tete  ! 

In  adjectives  in  euse  and  ante, 

He  doth  continually  speak  ; 
His  heroine  is  ravissante, 

For  "beautiful  "  would  not  be  chic! 
204 


A  Writer.  205 

Boudoir,  ennui,  cafe",  argot, 

His  standard  favorites  always  are  ; 
And  he  for  worlds  would  not  forego 

The  sempiternal  boulevard. 

His  scene  is  laid  upon  the  Seine, 

From  him  what  could  you  ask  of  more  ? 

The  lover  calls  his  girl  ma  reine, 
And  she  calls  him  mon  doux  tre'sor. 

And  then  his  proper  names,  with  zeal 

He  could  not  very  well  forget  ; 
He  dazzles  us  with  Claude,  Emile, 

Pauline,  Adele,  and  Henriette. 

Tired  of  the  hackneyed  terms  ?     Not  he  ! 

His  grand  sangfroid  you  little  know  ; 
He  'd  write  a  page  for  vis-a-vis, 

And  twenty  more  for  dos-a-dos  ! 

And,  as  you  read  his  lovely  livre, 

Which  wonderment  from  stones  could  wrench, 
You  marvel  how  he  still  can  vivre, 

And  why  he  does  not  write  in  French  ! 


WHAT   IS   IT? 

THE  man  unto  the  smiling  lawyer  said, 

Hearken,  good  friend,  and  gain  an  honest  fee, 

That  will  be  novelty  :  now  bend  your  head, 
Stop  smoking  cabbages,  and  list  to  me. 

I  'm  much  perplexed,  my  mind  is  quite  undone, 
Through  laws  of  nations  I  can't  fully  see  ; 

I  want  to  know  about  my  youngest  son, 
My  little  infant's  nationality. 

My  wife  and  I  dispute  the  live-long  day, 
I  say  he  's  that  and  she  declares  he  's  this, 

So  if  you  '11  settle  it  you  '11  get  good  pay 
And  fill  our  aged  ventricles  with  bliss. 

The  facts  are  these  :  I  am  of  English  stock, 

Tho'  born  in  Madagascar  years  ago. 
My  wife  is  Scotch  descent,  from  Bevis  Loch, 

But  she  saw  light  in  Southern  Borneo. 

When  we  were  hitched  we  wandered  o'er  the  world 
In  a  Dutch  schooner,  pray  do  not  forget, 

But  at  the  mast  the  French  flag  was  unfurled, 
Because  we  did  some  contraband,  you  bet. 
206 


What  is  It  ? 

We  lay  in  Turkish  waters  when  my  son 

Was  cabin-born,  in  number  22. 
The  captain  was  a  German  boy  from  Bonn, 

And  three  were  only  Chinese  in  the  crew. 

Well,  said  the  lawyer,  if  the  schooner  lay 
In  Turkish  waters,  let  no  trouble  lurk 

Within  the  furrows  of  your  forehead  gray, 
Because,  if  so,  the  infant  is  a  Turk. 

Indeed  ?  but,  lawyer,  I  forgot  to  say 
The  babe  is  a  nigger :  we  are  white. 

Account  for  this  discrepancy,  I  pray, 

And  set  two  luckless,  blundering  minds  aright. 


207 


BEAUTIES   OF   PRONUNCIATION. 

I  LOVE  the  beauteous  verse  divine, 

Of  that  Jew  genius,  Henri  Heine  : 

And  Longfellow  wrote  lovely  lines, 

About  our  great  aborigines, 

While  Keats,  who  lies  the  ground  beneath, 

Wrote  verses  to  the  river  Lethe. 

Dear  Quarles  and  Hood,  I  love  them  both, 

But  I  prefer  the  songs  of  Goethe. 

And  all  the  sonnets  gay  and  airy 

Of  that  sweet  spirit  Baudelaire. 

I  also  let  my  musings  amble 

Throughout  the  works  of  Thomas  Campbell. 

Keen  to  the  taste  as  autumn  russet 

Are  all  the  verses  of  De  Musset. 

But  I  must  cease,  the  door  secure 

And  spend  an  hour  with  Tommy  Moore. 


208 


IMAGINATION. 

[A  tramp  soliloquizes  before  an  enclosed  tombstone.] 

YES,  thou  art  dead,  my  unknown  friend, 

Brought  to  the  final  station  ; 
You  Ve  fought  until  the  bitter  end, 

And  now  enjoy  salvation. 

There  in  the  heavens  where  you  have  flown, 

There  is  no  thirst  or  fasting — 
Nothing  but  harps  and  pure  ozone, 

And  glory  everlasting. 

Your  charming  corpse  lies  dismal  here, 
Wrapped  in  its  shroud  of  satin, 

And  on  the  stone  I  see  appear 
Your  praises  in  bad  Latin. 

But  ah  !  while  in  the  stainless  sky, 

Your  soul  in  bliss  is  sailing  ; 
Your  bones,  I  see,  are  guarded  by 

A  most  expensive  railing. 

I  never  knew  you  in  this  life, 
And  tho'  I  'm  guessing  blindly, 
M  209 


Imagination. 


You  would  have  helped  me  in  the  strife, 
I  think,  and  likewise  kindly. 

Within  my  very  heart  of  hearts 

Religiously  I  feel  it  ; 
But  I  have  not  the  mourner's  arts 

To  quietly  conceal  it. 

You  would  have  lent  me  shining  gold 

If  you  had  only  known  me, 
And  when  I  lay  half  dead  with  cold, 

Mercy  you  would  have  shown  me. 

You  would  perchance  have  said  to  me, 

Lying  intoxicated, 
"  Here,  take  my  pantaloons,  and  be 

A  man  regenerated  !  " 

And  p'rhaps  you  would  have  given,  you  know, 

Your  last  poor  drop  of  water, 
And  even,  beholding  all  my  woe, 

Have  offered  me  your  daughter. 

Had  you  been  spared  another  year 
From  boils,  and  gouts,  and  freckles, 

You  might  have  left  to  me  some  here, 
Say,  twenty  thousand  shekels. 

And  likewise  by  your  influence,  too, 

Ere  going  to  old  Davy, 
You  might  have  got  me,  say  a.  few 

Fat  places  in  the  Navy. 


Imagination. 

Ah,  yes,  indeed,  this  might  have  been, 
In  happier,  by-gone  hours, 

And  that  is  why,  the  worse  for  gin, 
I  leave  these  faded  flowers. 

And  as  old  iron  they  say  for  sure, 
Finds  markets  never  failing, 

To  keep  your  holy  memory  pure, 
I  think  I  '11  steal  your  railing. 


211 


TASTEFULLY  TATTOOED. 

Do  I  love  poetry  ?     Indeed  I  do, 

I  love  it  as  the  young  lark  loves  the  day  ; 

In  fact,  I  know  I  love  it  more  than  you, 
And  I  can  prove  the  assertion  right  away. 

When  I  by  all  its  glory  was  subdued 

For  the  first  time,  I  went,  without  a  drink, 

Unto  a  Turk,  who  on  my  arm  tattooed 
Four  of  old  Watt's  hymns  in  Indian  ink. 

Later  he  pricked  upon  my  spine,  in  red, 

The  whole  of  "  Hiawatha,"  neat  and  clean  ; 

And  on  the  summit  of  my  hairless  head 
He  put  the  opening  of  "  Evangeline." 

Upon  my  shins,  in  letters  large  and  plain, 
Dobson's  "  Antonce  "  is  now  displayed  ; 

While  on  my  shoulder-blade  is  sweet  "  Elaine," 
And  Tennyson's  immortal  "  Light  Brigade." 

The  "  Morte  d'  Arthur  "  is  frescoed  on  my  feet, 
And  all  "  Childe  Harold  "  's  on  my  eldest  toe  ; 

My  instep  holds  the  works  of  Keats  complete, 
While  on  my  wrist  the  songs  of  Swinburne  glow. 


Tastefully  Tattooed.        213 

Do  I  love  poetry  ?     Why,  all  Shelley's  odes 
Upon  my  breast  in  blue  and  crimson  stand  ; 

My  cheek's  a  mass  of  Whittier,  and  loads 
Of  Hugo's  verse  are  punctured  on  my  hand. 

Have  I  some  Aldrich  ?     Why,  of  course  ;  just  spell 
The  poesy  on  my  throat,  and  you  will  find 

His  quatrains,  sonnets,  and  his  "  Baby  Bell," 
With  other  charming  offsprings  of  his  mind. 

Then  I  have  Lowell,  Goethe,  Milton,  Young 
Engraved  upon  my  collar-bone  with  care ; 

And  see  !  my  elbows,  forehead,  lids  and  tongue 
Form  one  great  labyrinth  of  Baudelaire. 

As  for  my  lips,  you  can  perceive  they  hold 
Some  verses  of  old  Homer,  famous  yet  ; 

While  on  my  chin,  in  letters  of  pure  gold, 
Are  all  the  noble  lyrics  of  Burdette. 

And  if  you  '11  treat  to  mutton  chops  and  beer, 
Or  better,  to  some  spring  shad  with  the  roes, 

I  '11  take  some  poem  of  your  own,  my  dear, 
And  will  immortalize  it  on  my  nose  ! 


A   DREAM. 

A  SPIRIT  told  me  in  a  wondrous  dream, 

That  dead  men's  souls  returned  in  other  clay, 

And  if  I  held  my  tongue  and  would  n't  scream, 
He  'd  point  them  out  to  me  upon  Broadway. 

"  Invisible,  I  '11  amble  by  your  side 

To-morrow  afternoon,  without  a  doubt," 

And,  as  the  festive  spirit  had  not  lied, 

He  came  at  half-past  three  and  we  walked  out. 

"  That  man  you  see  who  totters  over  there, 

Full  of  gin  cocktails  lacking  nerve  and  strength, 

Drunk  as  an  owl  and  laden  down  with  care, 
Is  but  a  later  form  of  Leo  Tenth. 

"  That  favorite  actor  who  has  just  passed  by, 
Is  St.  Luke,  redivius,  and  that  tramp 

Who  has  a  plaster  on  his  weather  eye, 
Is  old  Aladdin,  who  has  lost  his  lamp. 

"  Yonder  old  loafer,  who  doth  quench  his  thirst 
In  foaming  beer,  is  Croesus,  you  can  bet  ; 

That  fat  car-driver  is  great  Charles  the  First, 
And  yonder  dame  is  Marie  Antoinette. 
214 


A  Dream.  215 

"  That  nun  was  once  the  Empress  Josephine, 

That  banker  was  old  Judas  years  ago, 
And  yonder  cracked-voice  tenor,  poor  and  lean, 

Was  sweet  Rubini,  tho'  he  does  not  know. 

"  See  there  !  that  coward  who  has  struck  a  boy, 

He  's  Caesar,  mighty  Caesar,  I  can  tell, 
And  yonder  nigger  selling  corn  with  joy, 

Is  the  divine  and  gentle  Raphael. 

"  That  organ-grinder  with  his  monkey  there, 
Is  poor  Rossini  standing  near  the  Globe, 

And  that  man  waiting  with  impatient  air, 
Stamping  his  feet,  is  no  one  less  than  Job. 

"  Yonder  Bohemian  in  the  paper  writes  ; 

He's  Shakespeare,  but  he  has  n't  found  it  out, 
Nor  has  the  world,  for  he  gets  drunk  o'  nights, 

And  spends  his  splendid  salary  on  a  bout  : 

"  That  rum  old  cove  who  keeps  the  hardware  store 
Will  sharpen  axe  or  hatchet  while  you  stop. 

Be  very  careful  well  to  look  him  o'er  ; 

He  is  George  Washington,  his  nation's  pop." 

"  And  who,  oh,  who  are  you  ?  "  I  wildly  said, 
And  paused  to  hear  him  grunt,as  I  grew  paler, 

"  Look  here,  young  man,  you  're  drunk  ;  go  off  to  bed  ; 
You  owe  me  $20  ;  I  'm  your  tailor  !  " 


A  RHAPSODY. 

I  WILL  sing  of  her  sweet  lips  in  triumph, 
For  I  kissed  them  last  night  the  first  time, 

Soft  as  roses  and  tender  as 

Holy  Moses  !     I  can't  find  a  rhyme. 

Whiter  far  than  a  pearl  or  pale  silver, 

I  have  seen  her  wee,  cunning  teeth  shine, 

Bright  and  radiant  as  moonbeams  and 

('T  is  my  Muse's  fault,  surely  not  mine). 

When  I  saw  her  blue  eyes  with  tears  moisten, 
When  I  spoke  of  my  passionate  pain, 

The  rare  dew  of  a  flower  is  no 

Ah  !  Great  Scott,  has  this  happened  again  ? 

Never  mind  !  I  'm  a  poet  and  genius  ; 

I  '11  find  rhymes  and  new  rhythms  and  verse 
To  immortalize  her  and  to 

That  will  do  ....  this  sweet  poem  's  a  curse. 


216 


ONE  KIND  OF  WRITER. 

HE  always  says  "  Man  Dieu  "  for  God, 
A  douce  amie  he  calls  his  girl  ; 

Bizarre 's  his  English  word  for  "  odd," 
Kti&perle  is  prettier  than  "  pearl." 

A  vis-a-vis  and  tete-a-tfae 

In  every  chapter  greets  the  view, 
While  chic  turns  up  as  sure  as  fate, 

Accompanied  by  rendezvous. 

No  Janes  nor  Anns  his  fancy  please, 
His  heroines  are  far  more  sweet  ; 

And  they  are  known  as  Heloi'se, 
Fifine,  Hortense,  or  Marguerite. 

A  sacrebleu  expresses  rage, 

A  Marchioness  is  writ  Marquise. 

Gamins  and  cocottes  grace  each  page, 
And  boulevards  come  in  with  ease. 

Bouquet,  chignon,  corsage,  I  think 
You  '11  find  in  bunches  everywhere  ; 

And  then  his  heroes  always  drink 
Their  cognac  from  a  petit  verre. 
217 


2i8       One  Kind  of  Writer. 

Potage  and  bisque  are  down  for  soup  ; 

Douleur  atroce  goes  well  for  pain  ; 
Languir  is  daintier  far  than  "  droop," 

And  any  headache  is  migraine. 

Fumer  for  him  is  good  for  "  smoke  ;  " 
Centime  's  a  better  word  than  groat, 

As  well  asj'eu  demot  for  "  joke," 
Andflardessus  for  "  overcoat." 

And  when  I  see  my  Saxon  tongue 
Tortured  by  every  Gallic  wrench, 

I  wonder  why  the  man's  not  hung, 
Or  why  he  does  n't  write  in  French. 


RETURNED  WITH  THANKS. 

GOD,  weary  of  his  Heaven's  perpetual  joys, 
Took  the  fair  form  of  man  and  came  to  earth, 
To  judge  himself  of  all  its  boasted  worth, 

And  see  his  myriads  of  girls  and  boys. 

The  elevated  railroad's  beastly  noise 

Annoyed  his  spirit,  and  he  found  no  worth 
At  Tony  Pastor's  though  he  gave  him  birth, 

And  he  was  angry  with  his  human  toys. 

So  he  sat  down,  and  in  his  fury  penned 

A  Poem  most  Celestial  and  Divine, 
On  all  the  sights  that  worried  him  that  day. 

This  to  the  Atlantic  he  did  swiftly  send, 
And  got  it  back  the  next  night,  about  nine, 

Marked  "Very  crude  production,       T.  B.  A."  ! 


219 


THE  BAYADERE 


OTHER  SONNETS. 


BY  FRANCIS  SALTUS  SALTUS. 

1  Author  of  Honey  and  Gall,"    "  Shadows  and  Ideals,"  "  The 

Witch  of  En-dor,"  "  Dreams  After  Sunset," 

"  Flasks   and  Flagons." 


Limited  edition  of  five  hundred  copies,  vellum  paper, 
bound  in  half  morocco  and  vellum  cloth,  rough, 
edges,  gilt  top.  Trice  ....  $3.00 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON. 


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